


Walking on Thin Ice

by KeshaRocks



Series: Kindled [1]
Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Demons, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fire Magic, Healing, Healing Sex, Magic, Romance, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:33:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 57
Words: 206,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23338435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeshaRocks/pseuds/KeshaRocks
Summary: Michael is a rogue hero hired to hunt an Assassin's Guild hiding in the kingdom of Arendelle.Rumors say there's a plot to kill Queen Elsa and Princess Anna, and he's entrusted to find out whom.As Michael fights to protect the sisters, he soon discovers that there are much darker forces are at play.And that a heinous secret from his past could be his undoing.
Relationships: Elsa (Disney)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Kindled [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038814
Comments: 73
Kudos: 106





	1. Part I: The Shadow of Death

Summer is in the air as flowers bloom on trees and a nip in the air levels the humidity of the day collides with the coastal breeze. Villagers are about their business, selling goods and marrying with one another. Children follow a dog that has snatched a handkerchief and now runs down the cobblestone boardwalk.

From the local tavern, he overheard: the kingdom’s princess was apparently kidnapped as a child, recently reunited with her real parents. She’s beloved and is the celebrated by the kingdom; despite her marrying a retired thief. Due to a new order in the officer ranks, the crime in the kingdom vanished in half overnight.

Atop the roof of a local parlor shop, Michael Tuller gazes upon the people.

The Kingdom of Corona has proven to be quite the merry of most. There’s a level of, equality that he never sees in others. Most seem to make a good living if they’re willing to work hard. Yet this shouldn’t denture the thieves that crawl beneath the city.

Crouching down, Michael rests one elbow on his knee and gazes at the streets. His black hood conceals his face as shadows obscure the features. He looks left and right, though the north end seems secure. Usually the south edge was the worst parts of town. But as he finished the thought, a scream erupts from the town square. Michael rises from his position and pivots right, bolting at a full sprint.

He leaps across rooftops and planks. He focuses on his breathing and heartbeat as he nears the cathedral’s bell tower located in the Sought Edge. It isn’t that far to get to The Square, and it provides him a high view over the heads of onlookers. He reaches the top and steps around the bell and settles next to a gargoyle overlooking the square.

A sound catches to his left, and he looks down and finds a group of men huddled close. He would’ve thought nothing of it, until he saw the brief view of a slim, and pale leg in the middle of the group.

A young girl is blindfolded and shackled to the wall. She was a pretty thing with cream-colored skin, red hair that falls to her shoulders in waves, and dazzling violet eyes. She wears dirtied rags, and is unconscious. She isn’t moving, and it appears her body is trying to slack to her knees, but the shackles aren’t allowing it.

Michael can see one man order the other to wake her, as he watches him rustle and then something sharp, like a needle, stabs the tip of the girl’s forefinger. She cries out. The sound is just barely coming out of her mouth before his fist strikes her. Blood dribbles down her lips.

That is enough.

Michael rises from his position and as the bell chimes noon, his shadow is gone.

He’s then on the ground just near the front of the alley. He doesn’t know what’s going on, or what the cause is, but he doesn’t care. Michael could tell by the dirt stains on their uniforms, and bits of blood around the collar that these aren’t the city guards; normally not noticed by the average citizen.

Also, their swords. For some odd reason, the guards around the kingdom had switched to frying pans as better weapons. These men carry steel swords, and stand before the girl as if she is a peasant in the presence of a man who owns the world.

One man yanks the blindfold off the girl’s face. She looks to her captors. Three in total are surrounding her while citizens meander about; completely oblivious. Michael tries to listen to their conversation.

“What’s going on?” One woman asks.

“Public humiliation.” A man answers.

Michael expects to see the girl cower in fear, but she glares at the men with a look of absolute loathing. She is tough, he’ll give her that. She tries to turn her head to spit, but the shackles around her neck prevent it. She spits the blood from her mouth. It dribbles down her neck and onto the front of her rags.

Michael places his hand on the hilt of his dagger. He watches as the leader approaches the girl with a sort of cocky walk. His smile suggests he holds all the power, and with his hand on the hilt of his sword shows he is prepared to strike at any sudden movements.

He says something to the girl. She replies, and the man’s fist smashes into her face. Michael carefully slinks his way down the side of the building; careful not to disturb any trash.

“You’re smart, strong, and beautiful.” The leader says. “But you should know that no one crosses me.”

He gazes at her, his eyes lingering over her chest. He runs his fingers along the girl’s shoulder, the tickles her chin. The girl struggles against her chains. A look of disgust contorts her face into a snarl. The girl pulls so hard on her bindings that her wrists bled. Tears trickle down her cheeks.

“Oh, no, no, no.” He whispers. “Don’t cry.”

“Fuck you.” The girl whispers back.

He laughs, but not at all bothered. She is shackled and helpless. He has all day.

He presses the tip of his dagger against her right eyebrow. Michael sees him lean in and whispers something in her ear. The men presses his dagger further into her flesh. Blood trickles around her eye. She blinks against its sting.

“All day,” Michael hears the man say as she slowly drags the dagger downward “I have all day.”

Michael increases his speed towards the mosaic. Stepping over or around a number of puddles.

The leader cuts her eyebrow, her eyelid, and then her eye.

Her scream is bloodcurdling. The bell tower chimes.

The leader rams his mouth over hers, drinking in her scream like it’s a fine wine. He pulls back, smiles at her.

When he’s about to fondle her, he flies to the side from Michael’s brutal kick to the head. The leader rolls along the hard ground stopping only when he hits the wall.

Michael now stands before the group, who has fallen dead silent. He has half the mind to shout for the guards, but he can’t bring himself to shatter the silence. So he only draws another dagger from his belt.

One of the lackey’s roars as he swings his sword, barreling towards Michael. The other readies his sword and sneers.

The first guard slashes his sword at Michael’s chest. Michael parries it with the dagger in his left hand, steps closer, and then cuts across the man’s face with his right. Blood splashes on his arm, but slides off like water.

The man howls as the tip hooks the underside of his eye. His companion lunges, forcing Michael back and preventing a killing blow. The wounded man clutches his face with his free hand, glaring with his good eye. The other man strikes again, a weak thrust that reveals just how green he is.

Michael bats the man’s sword aside, slashes his wrist, and then hurls his dagger. He can easily kill a man from a rooftop. Standing mere feet away, they have no chance. The dagger strikes just above his gorget, and he gargles out a few unintelligible words as he collapses.

A great cry rises up as a woman shrieks in horror.

Good. Let the guards come.

Knowing his time is short, Michael presses an attack on the wounded soldier. The man parries a couple of Michael’s stabs, his movements awkward from clutching his face with his other hand.

Michael curls about him, always drifting to his wounded side, until one of his blocks comes in to early. Michael’s daggers sinks into the flesh of his throat and stomach. Gasping, the man falls and dies.

As puddles of blood pool under their bodies, and citizens gasp and scream in terror. Michael sheathes one dagger, keeping the serrated one in hand, and approaches the girl. Now she fidgets in fear and tries to wriggle her wrists out of the bindings; they scrape against her wounds and she grits her teeth. Behind him, the crowd wails and holler things towards him to get away from her.

Michael comes to level with her, and she turns her head to the side as far a she could, tears streaming down her already raw cheeks. Michael puts his free hand against the vicious wound on the girl’s face, his fingers gently touching the flesh. Blood pools across the cloth around Michael’s fingers, yet it is not absorbed into it.

The girl gasps at his touch, a shuddering breath escaping her lips. When she feels his touch is gentle, she slowly turns her head to face him and flutters her eyes open.

She looks into the shadows that obscure his features, seeing only the faintest hint of blue eyes.

“Are you alright?” Michael asks. The girl answers with an inconspicuous nod of her head. “Are you sure?”

“Who are you?” The girl’s lips tremble as she asks.

“I’m a friend.” He sighs as he assesses her wound. Blood continues to pour down her face, her neck, and her slender body. The eye is useless, completely useless.

“Thank you.” She quietly weeps.

Michael gives the girl a faint smile, more like a scrunching of fabric from his mask. His hands are a blur about the girl’s body. One by one the locks click open. The girl collapses into the Michael’s arms, unable to stand.

“You’re name?” The girl asks as she clutches his shoulders, one eye crying tears, the other blood.

“Unimportant.” He replies.

Gently he puts the girl to her knees on the ground and wraps a blanket he picked from the one of the stands selling textiles, wrapping it around the girl’s shoulders. It clings to her body and pools around her.

It covers her entirety, including her feet. Clutching her sides, the creases ripple like water as she fists it in her hands and huddles into it like a youngling. Now that she’s covered, Michael turns his attention to the remaining man. He stands and puts his back to the wall. He still has his dagger.

“Uncalled for. I’ll have you arrested for interfering with official officer business!” He shouts.

“That would be intimidating if you were part of the royal guard.” Michael calmly snarls.

The man is about to shout in reply, when his eyes flick over Michael’s shoulder. Michael turns and sees a trio of real guards, led by a citizen, file into the alley. The citizen points towards Michael then the man. They ready frying pans like weapons.

Michael turns back just in time as the thug spin his dagger lunging towards Michael’s chest.

It never comes close.

He slaps it away with an open palm, kicks the man in the groin, and then slams an elbow into the man’s forehead.

“You ought to be nicer with the ladies.” Spinning his serrated dagger, Michael grips the man by scruffs of his hair and as the man tries to reason that killing him won’t solve anything, Michael simply snarls and slices his throat. Blood splatters across the ground.

Simply tossing the body aside, Michael approaches the girl carefully. “Can I touch you?”’ he asks.

The girl looks to him and nods her head. He helps her up and keeps an eye on her gait. She appears to be able to handle the walk towards the guards, until her knees quake and she tumbles into his chest. He manages to hold her up and keeps an arm around her shoulder.

He guides her to the guards, but as one carefully carries her, five others surround him. They point their pans towards him, and it takes all he has not to laugh. He holds his arms in the air in submission.

“No!” The girl cries. “He helped me! He’s innocent!”

“He’s interfered with public affairs without consulting the guards.” The one soldier says.

“Without –! He _saved_ me! Those men could’ve done worse and you’re arresting _him_?” She argues.

She’s shouting now, and he can’t seem to pinpoint where the anger comes from, except that it swirls within her, violent and vicious and the strongest she’s felt this whole time.

This seems to somehow strike the guards, as their grips on their ‘weapons’ loosen. Michael bows his head in respect to the officers. They lower their pans but he still keeps his arms above his head. Slowly, he reaches back towards his sheath of arrows.

“Be that as it may, we still need to take him in.”

“What?!” the girl barks.

“He needs to be brought before the King and Queen. He may have justified actions, but he’s still murdered men.”

“I meant no disrespect to the law.” Michael chimes.

“Of course, sir. But we had gotten word about who you are; you’ll have to come with us.” The guard responds.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

In an instant Michael takes the arrow head and slaps it to the ground. Smoke erupts and envelops his body. Guards jump back and cough.

His cloak swirls about his body, his limbs and head fading away into a shapeless blob of back and gray. Michael wraps his cloak around his body, its fabric seemingly made of liquid shadow. A sudden jerk and he is gone, his body exploding into dark fragments that splashes across the walls and fades like smoke.

Standing at the end of the kingdom’s bridge, he gazes at the kingdom gates, the salty air wafting into his nose. Turning on his heels, he keeps his hood up as he starts to walk away from the kingdom.

Since the death of his parents when he was thirteen, he has since made it a sworn duty he would abolish any form of crime in any kingdom he’d come across. Usually it ends peacefully as the guards let him go for being a “Helpful citizen.”

But those rare cases where he wasn’t easily excused for being ‘heroic.’ He usually has to take the more discreet escape; leaving behind some coin. Whether they take it as a bribe to overlook his actions, or as a payment is up to them.

He hasn’t seen a wanted poster of him yet, and he hopes his luck will hold out. Though a part of him does with for _something_ to happen; maybe finally be hired as some mercenary or get picked up by a high-ranking citizen for protection. Hell, he’ll even settle as a desk clerk for a library, at this point. Ever since the ending of a long-standing rebellion in his own hold, Michael has been a man without much of a purpose.

His kingdom – a forgotten land he once called home – was once ruled by a ruthless king. If any were to speak ill will of him, they were usually dragged to the castle dungeons and never seen again. If they were lucky, they’d be a public example – at least then you’d know they weren’t suffering anymore.

And gods forbid anyone spoke of the rebellion in the kingdom. That was a guaranteed trip to the gallows. Though, the rules seemed to vary, from time to time; like when three black-clothed guards showed up at his cabin home, accusing his parents of being rebels.

There was very little talking, and so much bloodshed.

Needless to say he joined the rebel cause shortly after, excelling at his training and working his way up into the elite ranks. He never led anyone bigger than a group of three; never really desiring power. Not really wanting it.

It took years to train, but only days to overthrow the king; Michael having the pleasure of holding his head out over the balcony for all to see. Through those years, folks have taken it upon themselves to give him an alias: The Reaper.

It’s not the best name, but it is fitting, and frankly he can’t care less about it. All that the world knows about The Reaper is that he is male. And frankly, he wants to keep it that way.

A new order was quickly established after that; a collective vote putting a new, and better person on the throne.

Michael was cleared of all would-be charges, and soon the rebels disbanded; some taking up refuge as castle guards, others simply carrying on with their own lives – settling down, starting families.

But there were others, like himself, who still couldn’t sleep at night despite the justice that had been brought for those who lost more at the hands of that king.

During his time there, he would train so often, and so hard that the exhaustion usually lulled him to sleep. But with the king dead, and his one purpose in life fulfilled he felt . . . empty.

And with years of training branded into his brain, it’s not so easy to just break the habits. Never sleeping in the same place twice and carefully covering his tracks. He can’t recall the last time he slept in a place comfortably; able to relax without needing to hug a dagger close to his chest.

As the sky begins to surrender to the night, Michael stumbles across a local inn for travelers. Walking up the steps, he stops upon seeing a beggar sitting on the outside bench, a bucket placed in front of him with nothing but scrapes of food inside. He gazes at the beggar. He gives a slight smile and flicks a coin into the bucket.

“Oh thank you. May the gods bless your kind heart.” He praises.

Michael nods and enters the inn. Inside, he takes note of only the three customers. A huge fireplace is at the center, with long wooden tables set against the walls, and chairs scattered about in a tasteful fashion.

He approaches the counter and orders a room for the night. The bartender shows him to his room and he shuts the door behind him. It takes him five minutes to search the room for any spyholes or signs of danger, five minutes to lift the framed painting on the wood-paneled walls, tap at the floorboards, seal the gap between the door and the floor, and shutter the windows.

When he is certain that no one can either see him or hear him, he rips off his hood, unties his mask and tosses them onto the chair.

He throws himself on the small bed – which seems more like a cot – and pulls out a worn book he keeps strapped against his quiver. It’s charming read and is something to get his mind off of things, allowing him to escape for however many pages he can cram before sleep.

Reading has always been another escape for him. He can still remember the stacks of books that covered his bedroom at his family’s old home.

Time passes by, as told by the candlestick on his table as it slowly shrinks. As he nears the end of a chapter, a creak in the wood catches his attention. Michael freezes and flicks his gaze around his room.

He slowly sits up and sets the book aside. There is only one wardrobe in his room, a chest, a single table and chair, and a bed. The stout candle flickers at the slightest breeze. There’s is no other room for someone to be in here.

He stands and gazes around the room. He goes to the door and opens it, sticking his head out, and glances around the inn. The bartender has changed shifts, and a drunkard has his head flopped in the table snoring.

Gazing out the windows located above the vaulted ceiling, it has to be at least eleven o’clock at night. Michael steps out of his room and begins to circle around the fireplace.

Nothing seems out of place, and the bartender doesn’t seem bothered, though this doesn’t calm him. As he goes back into his room, he glances at the bartender who keep wiping the counter with an old rag, as if cleaning is a necessity. He locks the door behind him as he enters.

As he does, the room goes dark.

He instantly spins and lunges forward. A hand grabs his arm and drags him to the side. Someone shoves a burlap sack over his head while someone else pushes him against the wall.

He struggles to breathe and thrashes against them. Struggling with the fabric covering his face, there are at least two hands on his arms. He twists one arm free and punches, hitting someone in a shoulder, or a chin, he can’t tell. Through it all, he doesn’t cry out for help.

“Hey!” A male voice says. “That hurt!”

“We’re sorry for startling you, Michael.” Another man says, his tone softer. Gentler. “But anonymity is integral to our operation. We mean you no harm.”

He pauses for a minute at the mention of his name. _No one_ should know his name. This man must have some, secured, connection if he is able to get this information. “Then let _go_ of me.” He growls. All the hands holding him to the wall fall away. “Who are you?” He demands.

“We are representatives of another kingdom in dire need your, talents.” The man continues. Michael can tell he is trying to quell panic, his voice laced with urgency.

This makes him laugh. “Why the need to take drastic measures?”

“We’ve caught wind of your, recent acts, and weren’t sure whether you’d be hostile.” Another voice responds, deeper, gruff.

“Which circumstance are you referencing?” Michael asks, crossing his arms.

“Back in your home kingdom.” Is all honey-dripping man’s voice says, and it’s all he needs to say.

“Well, I’m no criminal, and your obviously not here to arrest me, so what problems do you have?” Michael asks. He tries to see through the fibers of whatever is over his head, but they are too dense and it is too dark.

“If you’ll just head outside, there is a carriage waiting for you. We’ll discuss when the matters are more, private.”

“Well at least let me ask you this,” Michael says, pointing to the burlap sack. “If I’m going to see who you are, in a matter of minutes, why is it so important to keep this thing over my head?”

“A day contains many dangers,” the voice says. “especially with a man of your status. Meet us outside in five minutes.”

All at once, the door swings open, blowing the sack against Michael’s cheeks, and he hears running footsteps down the hall and the opening of the front door.

He instantly pulls the sack from his head and glances over his shoulder. The bartender is gone and the innkeeper as just come up from the cellar. Folding the sack and tucking it away on his belt, he gathers his things.

Once five minutes have passed, Michael pulls up his hood, secures his mask and hastily exists the inn. Outside, twilight was beginning to arise over the horizon. There are little to no people outside, and an early morning breeze drifts through the town, causing the wood foundations moan.

Parked just outside the inn is a pale blue carriage. Its intricate designed structure defines that of a high class. The color itself is a pale, almost icy blue with pearl white outlines that could be made of actual pearl for all he knew.

Gilt details chased the walls and netted the windows while a giant snowflake dominates the entire back. The coachman sits straight with his head facing forward. His posture so stiff that he looks like he made be made of plastic. He doesn’t turn his head even as Michael approaches. A footman stands at the open carriage door with a similar stature, only he actually looks to him and gestures him in.

Michael walks up the two steps and raises his eyebrows. The interior has navy-blue plush cushions and crystal snowflakes hang suspended from the ceiling, wavering ever so slightly. Embroidered pillows sit on either side of the cushions while velvet carpeting muffles his footsteps.

With one seat occupied by a cloaked figure, Michael takes the seat across. He folds his hands together and waits for the figure to say something, otherwise he might as well just walk out. No pointing going anywhere until he knows _where_ he’s going and _why_.

The man first removes his hood revealing a balding man in his mid-thirties. Underneath the black cloak, he wears a green and purple button suit with a golden yellow stylized crocus crest encompassed over his heart.

Michael has recognized it before. Usually they are associated and prominent with the kingdom of Arendelle. He furrows his eyebrows.

“You must be boiling in all that clothing.” He says by way of greeting.

He crosses his arms behind his head. “I’m used to it.” The mask and clothes are a necessary precaution, one that makes it far easier to protect his identity. How else is he able to stroll down the board avenues of kingdoms, or infiltrate grand parties by posing as foreign nobility? “How do you know my name?” Michael asks.

“Connections.” The man replies. Fair enough. The man bows his head slightly. “Thank you for meeting us. I know it wasn’t our, smartest first impression by far.” The man says.

“If you’ve got a job for me let’s hear it.” Michael says flatly.

“First, a little history lesson.” The man says holding up a gloved hand. “I am a representative of the Kingdom of Arendelle; as I’m sure you’ve taken notice. My Queen and her sister are beloved by all who know them. Elsa is the oldest, and after the death of their parents, she ascended the throne.”

Michael leans back into the seat and folds his arms. “I extend my condolences.”

The man bows his head in thanks. He looks nervous given Michael’s hood and cowl that only reveals his blue eyes. “Our Queen Elsa is, gifted, so to speak.”

“Gifted how?”

“She, has the ability of winter. She can create flurries with a flick of her wrist. And she is also, very powerful.” The man explains.

“Seems like quite the dictator.” Michael says.

“Not at all. Quite the opposite. Queen Elsa actually feared her gift for most of her life. She secluded herself from the world, and even her own sister. For so many years their royal majesties have kept the gates closed, and reduced the staff because of her ability. Only recently has she regained control and now rules the kingdom with as much grace and dignity as her parents. As the queen regnant of the kingdom of Arendelle, she is calm, reserved and regal, and is experienced in grace and poise.” He explains, his eyes lighting with passion for his gifted queen.

As he speaks, Michael hears the coachman snap the reins on the horses and the carriage lurches forward. The man is still talking like nothing is happening, but Michael ignores his talking.

“Wait, what the hell is happening?” he asks.

“W-we’re moving.” The man stutters, confused.

Looking out the back window, Michael growls in aggravation. “Stop the carriage.” he says.

“But sir –”

“Stop the damn carriage!” He says with a heavy thump of his wrist against the wall. The carriage harshly stops and the driver looks in back to see if something is wrong. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me _everything_.” Michael clarifies.

“I’m trying sir, but we need to get there quickly –”

“We are not moving until I have _all_ the details. I need to make sure this isn’t a waste of my time.”

The man sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “A man of business, I see.”

Michael simply waves his hand as he leans back against the seat.

“Ah yes, of course. Now I’ve recently been given word that an assassin is hiding out in our kingdom. And he was sent to annihilate the remainder of the royal family.”

“And this is all based off of rumors that may or may not be true.” Michael says, unconvinced.

“I understand you’re doubts, but please note that with any kingdom, any threat to the royalty is a matter that must be addressed even if it is all just gossip. Surely you must understand that.” The man persist.

“So why hire _me_? Why not some brute mercenary or double the guards? Plus, if your beloved queen has magic, I’m sure she’s more than capable of looking out for herself.” Michael says.

“Keep in mind she is hesitant to use her powers in combat. It is her last resort. Only if she is forced to will she use them. Plus, this is an _assassin_. A creature skilled in the art of deception.” The man leans forward, elbows to his knees and makes vigorous motions with his hands. “Royalty is reminded about it, but not trained to defend against it. We’re hiring you because you are a man of the shadows. You seem to know when danger is abound, as you demonstrated in the inn. Your skills are unmatched. Help us, please. You’re the only one who is skilled enough.”

Michael stills for a moment, then asks, “You know my story?”

“I only have basic facts. Nothing personal and nothing concrete; mostly myths and legends.

“Myths are usually based on some version of the truth.” Michael purrs, smiling beneath his mask; even if the man can’t see it.

“I assume you’d rather not talk about it. But I can guarantee you whatever payment you ask, it can be met.”

“A bold claim, though I don’t seek much reward these days.”

Indeed, just enough for him to rent a room at another inn in another town. Michael ponders for a moment before he leans back, and crosses his ankle to his knee.

“I can assure you, both sisters will welcome you with open arms.”

“Hold on.” Michael holds up an open palm hand. “If I’m to do this, I’d prefer I do it with tactics I’m familiar with.”

“Of course. We assumed as much. The Queen is hosting a party tonight, details aren’t important. But what _is_ important, is that it’s a gathering of very significant people. What better way to kill the Queen than in front of her predecessors.”

Michael eyes the man. “ _Every_ detail is important.”

The man merely laughs. “I have this uncanny ability to delve into the minds of others.” He says.

“Remind me not to get close to you.” Michael’s tone cannot sound more bored. “So I assume I’m not going to be on guard duty?”

“No, I’ve contacted my associates, and they’ve planned to get you into the party with the crowd. Guards will be notified, so if anything were to happen, they won’t target you. Their only concern will to be getting the Queen and Princess to safety.”

Michael looks to the man and exhales deeply through his nose. it only makes the interior of his insufferable mask hotter.

“So, do we have a deal?” The man asks, extending out his hand.

Michael looks to it at first, sensing a trap; but gives a ghost of a smile and takes the man’s hand.

“Deal.”


	2. Chapter 2

The trip will take about three days.

After the carriage ride to the city docks, Michael is escorted onto an exquisite fram with sails that stretch high enough to scrape the clouds. The sail has the same crocus crest printed on its front. It puffs and deflates with every gust that blows along the sea. It isn’t that he isn’t used to sailing, but he just prefers solid ground. Still he boards the plank and lets the butler escort him below deck to the living quarters.

He opens a door and motions Michael inside. Stepping over the threshold, the room has a single bed and a cushioned seat near the window. The four-post bed has draperies that close for the upmost privacy, and the bed itself has a thick mattress with plush and embroidered pillows adorning the head.

“You’re quarters until we reach Arendelle.” The man says.

“Thank you.” Michael says over his shoulder. He places his bag, which he constructed out of a pillowcase and rope, onto the bed. He’s still in his armor from the inn, and it’s starting to ripen.

“I’ll let you get comfortable. Dinner will be served in half an hour. Would you like me to wash those sir? The maids will have no problem.” He says.

Michael looks to his clothes. “What am I supposed to wear until then?”

“There is a dresser with clothes of a more, suitable attire. Everything should fit you.” The man comes in and takes Michael’s bag and motions towards the mahogany dresser with a simple silver candleholder on it. He then leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Michael walks around the room taking in the luxury he’s never seen. The wall is a peaceful, calm green color with naturist wall ornaments and tiered crystal sconces are dripping from the walls. The bed sheets seem to be made of the finest silk and feel as if it is stuffed with only the feathers of the most exotic birds in the world.

Sitting on the bed, he carefully runs his hand along the smooth sheets and catches the scent of lavender.

Undressing from his ripening armor, he tosses them onto the bed, standing in only his undershorts.

Looking in the large mirror across the way, perched on the vanity, he can see himself full-bodied. Given he only had one mirror in his old house, and that he always handled the forge daily, he had gotten used to seeing a soot-covered boy with blue eyes that still shine through the dirt and grime.

He now stares at a man with short black hair that falls over his forehead in bangs, cerulean blue eyes and a round nose. Scars of varying lengths cover his body, marking their territory along his chest, his back, his arms, everywhere. Some are slender and even, some of them thick and jagged. A life spent training and battling . . . His body is a map of his adventures, or proof of what growing up under a rebellion is like.

It never occurred to him how scarred and frankly dirty he appears, not that he usually cares. But for the first time, since he’s visiting royalty, he decides to draw a bath. He walks to the adjoined bathroom and sits on the edge of a marble tub with gold clawed feet. He turns the gold faucet and warm water spills into the tub, covering his toenails. Once it’s filled just below the lip, Michael slips beneath its warm skin and relaxes.

They never had warm water at his house. Normally they would bring buckets of lake water and heat it over the forge. It would take at least ten buckets to fill the tub, and five minutes to heat it up. Having hot running water every day, it’s surreal.

He takes the vanilla-smelling soap and begins to scrub his face with a loofa sponge. Lathering soap over them, he scrubs his face, arms, legs, neck; scrubbing until his skin is bright pink. The bathwater turns grey.

He turns the soap in his hands until his skin is coated with white lather. He runs his fingers over his palm, careful to get the spaces between his fingers and under his nails. By the time he climbs out, the water’s cooling and is murky brown.

Because he can – and because a small, childlike part of him is yearning for it – Michael drains and refills the tub; only this time he takes a porcelain pitcher, stands in the tub and scoops the water up to pour it down his body, starting from his head. Remaining dirt washes down the drain in thin streams, and when the water is clear, Michael steps out of the tub.

He grabs a towel and wraps it about his waist and takes another to dry his hair and torso. Stepping out of the steaming bathroom, he goes over to the dresser and pulls open the drawer.

Not having the best sense of style in the world, he does his best to pick a tunic and a pair of pants that have a presentable collaboration of color.

He settles on a royal blue tunic, and white trousers to go with his brown boots. He dries and combs his hair, ruffling his fingers through it before letting it be.

With five minutes until dinner, he assumes that someone will send a servant to bring him. So, he sits on the armchair poised in the corner and gazes out the window to the open sea.

He is nervous about people seeing him without his mask, but if that man’s word is true, he’ll be able to walk about the streets of Arendelle freely. The man seems desperate enough that he wouldn’t risk lying.

Nevertheless, it is already too late, as his clothes are now off to be washed, his weapons and shield leaning against the wall closest to his bed.

He closes his eyes, and must’ve dozed because there’s a knocking at his door, and when he opens his eyes, the sky that once was blue, is now dark velvet with piercing stars. Michael rubs his eyes and goes to the door. A woman dressed in the same attire as the man from the carriage stands at his door.

“Dinner is ready, sir.” She lightly smiles.

Michael awkwardly smiles and follows the woman into the hallway. His footsteps go mute as they sink into plush gold and green carpeting. The walls are lined with shelves decorated in colorful glass knickknacks and boats. Tall floor candelabrums with fancy flat bowls accent the space. Scanning the walls, he finds no windows.

They enter the dining room and Michael is instructed to take a seat. A large oval table occupies the center of the room, the walls overtaken by stacks of wine bottles, and a hutch crammed with rolled scrolls, quills, crystal glasses, and some very old, very expensive-looking brandy.

The table is set with silver and pearl-white plates overflowing with food. A crown roast, filet tied with rosemary, and exotic dishes he’d never seen before. A large bird is stuffed with dressing and pears, resting on peacock feathers arranged to resemble a live bird’s open tail. And sparkling candies shaped like live seahorses.

Michael takes a seat on one side of the table and keeps his hands in his lap as instructed by his father.

The servants walk around while other members of a higher status take their seats. The man from the carriage sits down next to Michael and smiles.

“You clean up nice.” He says.

Michael gives a ghost of a smile.

The man extends out his hand. “I still haven’t properly introduced myself. I’m Kai, I’m the Steward for the queen.” Michael takes his hand and shakes it with a nod of his head. “Now, there is one more detail that I need to tell you.”

One servant lays a plate down in front of Michael. He ignores his craving and forces himself to pay attention.

“Now, the Queen and Princess don’t know about our, hiring.” Kai says. Michael looks to him wearily. “It’s for the better. If they find out about the criminal in the kingdom, the Queen and her sister will overreact and she’ll have the gates closed.”

“So much for them welcoming me with open arms. How is them closing the gates a bad thing?” Michael says as he picks up a fork and stabs is into the meat of the bird.

“With her years of seclusion, the Queen is still overly-cautious. I just don’t want either of them riled up.” Kai says.

“Fine.” Michael agrees, taking a quick bite of the bird. He has to fight the urge to moan with pleasure as it’s sweet juice floods his tongue with flavor. “But how exactly do the guards feel about going behind the Queen’s back?”

“I’ve managed to pacify them about it; explaining to them what I did to hire you. It’s for the better intentions of the Queen and Princess.” Kai insists. “And it’s beneficial since you get paid, and treated to luxury while you’re working for us.”

“I’m not in it for money.” Michael mumbles. “Just to help however I can.”

“You sure have simple standards.” Kai says. “I knew you were the best choice.”

Both the men cheer and take a sip of the elegant wine.

After the dinner, Michael returns to his chambers with a swollen belly and plops on his bed.

He feels green in the face, but if he can handle his mother’s fish stew with broccoli, he’s determined to hold onto this. Michael heavily belches and runs his fingers through his hair. He strips off the clothes, folding them nicely before pulling on some sleepwear.

There’s a knock at the door and he opens it to find a maid with his uniform folded and pressed. She hands it and bows her head.

“Your clothes, sir.” She says.

“Thank you.” He takes the clothes and nods back.

He tosses his uniform onto the dresser and once again settles into the sheets of the bed. Gods, he’s never felt such thickness from a comforter. And the throw blanket atop that must be real fur.

He closes his eyes and lets the waves rock him to sleep.

* * *

_Michael_.

“ _Michael_.”

His mother whispers his name in the fog. The world is black, and a pale purple fog dwindles like mist on water. Michael pushes through the mist with his hands, only cradling the clouds for seconds. He listens to the whispers as they circle him and follows the scent of his mother. Sweat mixed with the freshening wisp of daisies.

He finds her standing at the edge of the mist and approaches her. He extends out a hand and grasps her shoulder, but the moment he does, she whips around and a push of air sends him flying back.

He rolls back and up to one knee. His mother’s eyes are tearstained and blood seeps from an invisible wound on her head. Her clothes suddenly become grey, bloodstained, pieces starting to disintegrate and be carried off in a phantom wind.

“ _Run_! _Run Michael_!” she screams. A high-pitched shriek that pierces the air.

Michael stands and grabs his dagger, but the moment his fingers braise the hilt, there’s a sudden whirl of movement and a haze of images. He blinks and finds himself standing in the courtyard of the castle of his old hold. Two guards off to the right restrain his mother while two more ahead of him drag his father’s body towards the executioner’s block.

“No!” Michael screams.

He tries to rush forward, but suddenly it feels as if he’s body is running through molasses while the world rushes on around him. He tries to run faster, but his legs still take excruciating time to even reach the ground.

The guards slam his father’s body down and there’s a grasp on Michael’s arms. He moves, but now two more guards are hauling him back. He thrashes and fights, but their arms seem to be made of steel.

Just as the headman’s axe is about to rain down, Michael screams.

Michael’s eyes spring open. The room swirls into focus. He blinks at the artificial light that radiates from his ceiling fixture, his hear thundering in his chest, as manic as a captured bird.

He sits up and holds his head, his forehead is moist with sweat. He gasps, heaving and swallows the air in gulps. He can feel himself slightly shaking and breathes that it’s just a dream.

There’s a knock at his door.

“What?!” Michael says too sharply, and clears his throat. “What, what is it?” he tries again.

“Sir Michael,” A soft, muffled female voice speaks. “Sorry to disturb you.”

“No, no. No, you didn’t.” Michael says with a cold chuckle. “I actually just woke up.”

“Uh well, we have arrived in Arendelle, sir.”

Michael looks out his window and sees the sky of bright blue with fluffy clouds gliding across.

The ship has been docked in the fjord, set alongside the harbor. Although from his position, he can only see the outer sea, and the tower ports that stand guard at the entrance.

“Sir?” he hears the maid speak.

“Yes, yes. I’ll be out in a minute. Thank you.”

He hears the footsteps walk away from the door and heads to the bathroom to splash his face with cold water. He pats his face and rests on his elbows as he breathes. Looking in the mirror, his eyes are slightly bloodshot and they feel dry. He snatches a towel and dries his face quickly.

Even after all these years, he still wakes up screaming for his dad to run.

He balls up the towel and chucks it across the room. As he exits to retrieve his uniform, he stops. Something small but shiny catches his eye. It floats around his room like its riding even the simplest breeze. Michael approaches it, only then does it come closer.

A snowflake. Yet it’s summer outside.

Michael watches the flake dance about the space, then drift towards him landing on his nose. He expects it to melt.

It doesn’t.

After three seconds, it simply floats up and past his head. He turns and it’s gone. The window is closed, and the sun’s glare makes him squint one eye.

Quickly packing away his things, Michael slings them over one shoulder and heads out to the docks. The sunlight blinds him for fifteen seconds before they adjust and he finds himself on the stone docks of Arendelle.

Walking past the docks and up the steps, there’s a flower stand on his immediate left then the castle beyond that. Posts with banners of the crest and the silhouettes of the royal family dot along the bridge that leads past the main gates.

The kingdom itself it surrounded by mountains, and with the sea as their only form of transportation, it would seem the kingdom has a natural barrier shall it ever be involved in war. And yet, the city has a very similar feel as Corona. Everyone seems decent and those willing to work have decent living conditions.

Kai motions Michael over and the rebel sighs re-gripping on his bag and following after the Harold. Several citizens gaze at him and Michael needs to double check that he’s not wearing his uniform.

He still wears the attire from yesterday’s dinner. His brown boots reach up to his knees, and despite their old appearance, they don’t have blood on them. Then he realizes, his clothing, it’s of high ranking nobles. He wears the clothes of a duke, yet walks like that of a commoner.

Gods, if anyone is to think he is some suiter here to appease the queen or princess . . .

Michael ruffles his bangs and continues after Kai. Green-tiled roofs expand far within the foot of the mountain, and a long and impressively built wall snakes its way up the spine. People hurry about in clothes of various makes, vendors call out their wares, acolytes in temples of wood or stone still beckon to those on the street.

The east side of the castle is where the main gates are located below a clock and in between two smaller doors, one on each side, all connected to Arendelle by a bridge.

The east side of the castle is where the main gates are located below a clock and in between two smaller doors, one on each side, all connected to Arendelle via a bridge.

The north side of the castle is the most fortified with four towers, each of differing shape, height and width. On the farthest right is the tallest and widest tower; to the left of that is a shorter, square-shaped tower and between the two is the fortified, protruding wall.

The south side is connected to a lighthouse which is one of the two structures marking the opening in which ships must pass through to enter the fjord.

Michael follows Kai across the stone bridge, ignoring a glance he gets from a guard. He sees the green and purple flags fluttering, children running about the bridge, coming and out of the courtyard with gates opened wide. He can’t help but smile at a couple of boys running around with small wooden swords.

A shadow passes over him as he steps under the archway into the courtyard. Two steps in and Michael nearly stumbles as his feet lose footing. He holds out his arms and regains balance and grips the ground with his toes.

No, not the ground, but frosted ice.

“Ice?” Michaels mumbles.

“Ah yes, see the queen likes to coat the courtyard with ice for the villagers. You know how to skate?” Kai asks as he glides across to the front doors.

Michael sighs. “This job had better be worth all this.” He grumbles.

Many citizens and children skate around giggling and laughing at those who fall and slip. The roofs are a pale blue with guilt details chasing up the walls. The water of the fountains gracefully towers upwards and glistens in the sunlight.

Michael recollects his memories of skating with his mother at the pond near their house. He glides to the front doors and skips over the threshold into the entry hall. As he enters, his footsteps echo against the polished wood floor.

Kai ushers him further in, and Michael cranes his head in awe at the incredible height of the ceiling. Their footsteps go mute as they sink into the runner carpet that stretches down the hall and up a grand staircase that splits to the left and the right. Tall, wooden doors sit underneath each staircase, long windows allowing daylight to flood the chamber. Couches and deep-cushioned chairs are scattered in a tasteful manner.

“Your chambers will be on the ground floor, in a guest room.” Kai says.

“And what’s to happen when the Queen and Princess find out I’m here, because they will find out.” Michael asks.

Kai stops, and turns. “Then we tell them the truth and our reasons for the secrecy, and hope for the best.”

“That’s not exactly the most promising.”

“That’s because you don’t know the royal sisters as I do.” Kai retorts. Michael eyes him and the steward clears his throat. “If you’ll just follow me.”

Kai leads him up the stairs to the left, and down a long hallway. Michael stops when he comes to a large room on his right. Furnished in purple and green with hardwood inlay floor, heavy draperies, and fancy old chairs. In one corner, like a squat gentleman in a tuxedo, stands a polished black piano.

As he steps into the room, a strange chill runs up his spine. He walks towards the piano and sets his bag of clothes down on a low glass table with spindly legs. He moves to stand behind the instrument, where he lets his fingers trail the ivory keys. Picking one somewhere in the middle, he presses it softly.

The note chimes quietly around him.

Michael trails his fingers along the keys up to the higher octave. As he turns around, he nearly chirps in surprise at a large oil painting hovering over the fireplace. He freezes when he finds himself staring into the intense gaze of a green-eyed, blond-haired man.

The King. Well, the former king.

The painting, drawn from the shoulders up, shows him dressed in a blue button-down, and a black vest. His gaze seems to be fixed in an almost-scowl at the painter, like he was indignant at the idea of having his picture painted. Faint half circles underlined the King’s eyes, giving him the look of being prematurely world-weary.

At the sound of feet approaching from the hall, Michael turns back to the piano quickly, pretending he is distracted by its beauty, allowing his fingers to ghost over the keys again.

Kai peeks his head in. He steps fully and folds his hands behind his back. “Sorry.” Michael apologizes.

“You play sir?” He asks.

“I dabbled in my younger years.” Michael admits. “Anyone here play?”

“Neither of the sisters, but we do have musicians that play at parties.” Kai explains. “Now come, we must get you settled before the party tonight.”

Michael makes sure to follow Kai as he navigates them through the halls. Left, right, right. Left right left. Right, right. The turns, in order from the point of origin – the ballroom – to the quarters.

He’s surprised at the layout of the castle; so simple. At this point he’ll be able to navigate it blindfolded by the end of the day. Despite the fact that they mount a couple more flights of stairs, he still feels like they’re descending deeper in the building.

His chambers are in the east wing of the castle, and are much bigger than he anticipated. They consist of a bedroom with an attached bathing chamber and dressing room, a small dining room, and a music and gaming room. Each is furnished in red, cross-hatched with gold, his bedroom having two sets of doors leading out to a wide stone balcony overlooking one of the gardens. More couches and chairs spread about and already there’s a fire brewing in the fireplace.

He walks around the room taking in the grandness. “This room is rarely ever used, sir. So you should be fine.” Kai says.

“As long as no one comes in and declares me an intruder.” Michael says.

“Of course not. Now, I’ll have some exclusive staff members dress you appropriately for the party. I told them about your unique situation and they’ve sworn to secrecy.”

“So when can I leave and switch clothes?” Michael asks sitting in a velvet armchair. “Because fancy clothing isn’t exactly wise to wear against an assassin.”

“You can feel free to leave whenever you wish. Or if you request to simply hide in the shadows the whole time, please.”

“I’ll probably go about twenty minutes before the party reaches its climax. No better time than to strike.” Michael summarizes.

“As you wish.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Just hang in this room, sitting on my ass until then?” Michael asks.

“I had anticipated you as someone who can’t sit still.” Kai smiles. “You’re free to roam the castle as the Queen and her sister are touring the marketplace for the day. They should be back by twilight.”

Michael nods.

“Now, I must return to the court. They simply can’t make do without me.” Kai says with a bow. He closes the doors and leaves the rebel to the expanse of the spacious suite. If the job includes living this kind of luxury, Michael can easily get used to being an Ice Queen’s bodyguard.

Having the entire day to himself allows more than enough time to spend the day scouting the castle, meeting new members of the staff, committing their faces to memory.

All throughout, he can’t get over the odd feeling of intrusion. Perhaps since the only other time he was _in_ a castle was when he went to murder the king.

The carpet feels wonderful to his bare feet as he walks the long hallways and down staircases. He amuses the idea of secret passages winding behind closed bookcases and secret crawlspaces, but he doesn’t bother to look.

All throughout, most of the female staff members make excuses to see him, not that he minds. They seem like decent company and seem more than happy to show him around.

The castle is old, and most of the halls and stairwells go nowhere. Some of the smaller, narrower halls hang the paintings of former masters of the Arendelle castle. Many of the ballrooms are empty with only an intricate mosaic of the family crest decorating the floor, and unlit crystal chandeliers still twinkling in the daylight. He continues past the kitchen quarters, which are a mess of shouting, clouds of flour, and surging fires. Once beyond, he enters a long hallway, empty and silent save for his footsteps.

He finds a clock reading five o’clock in the evening, and he sighs as he must bring his tour to an end for now, or risk running into one of the sisters on his way back.

When he returns to the room, a maid is in tow like a lovesick puppy.

“Couldn’t have asked for a nicer room.” He says as he plops down onto the bed. At the door, the maid Marian remains, as if embarrassed to come farther inside.

She was in her early twenties wearing a usual attire. A dark green dress with a head covering and white gloves. She stands with her hands folded in front of her and her head slightly bowed.

“Sir, the Queen and Princess will be getting ready for the party. And we were instructed to get _you_ ready as well.” She says.

“And how do you propose to do that?” Michael slyly smiles.

The maid slightly blushes and clears her throat. “If you’ll just follow me.” she says, while motioning out towards the dressing room.

Michael sighs and gets up from the bed and follows the maid.


	3. Chapter 3

Soaking in the hot water, his legs stretched out in front, Michael inhales the freshening scent of cucumber melon. One servant with tan skin, and long black hair, scrubs his feet with a loofah sponge, massaging away knots and tension. She lathers on a lotion that at first felt heated, but slowly grew warm as she scrubbed.

“My goodness, your knots have knots.” She says. “You travel a lot?”

Michael weakly smiles back. “Something like that.” He croaks.

His chin still lightly tingling from where she shaved away his five o’clock shadow, he rests his head back on the pillow they placed around his neck. He’s been with the staff for nearly an hour. They lotion his arms and legs, trim his nails, smoothing his hair and removing any unwanted knots.

“And I have to say you have such perfect eyebrows.” She adds.

“Thank you.” Michael speaks politely. He sighs. “I may never come out.”

Another woman – fine-boned with wheat brown wavy hair – scrubs his arms and massages his back. Then washing his hair was a woman with skin colored in a delicate snow white and pale pink lips. Her hair was a deep red, dripping down in an endless waterfall of curls. After another two minutes, they ask him to get out.

Michael sighs and presses his palms to the sides of the tub, careful not to lose his footing. Pushing up, he nearly slips from the oils, but gains his footing and takes the three steps out of the porcelain tub. They hand him a towel and once he’s dry, they toss it aside, handing him a soft, blue robe.

He can’t stop the smile on his lips. He’s never received this kind of, treatment, before. His body feels so fresh and warm he could swear he is squeaky clean from head to toe. He never realized how greasy his hair was until he ran his fingers through it, and it mimics that of silk.

“Just follow me, sir.” The pale-faced beauty says as she escorts Michael out of the room.

She simply leads him to the dining room, where a small banquet awaits. Smoothing the robe, he takes his seat at the head of the table. The table is set with food for lunch. Eager to taste, Michael fills his plate, then picks up a fork and twirls the noodles on, then popping it in his mouth. The sweet and cheesy sauce rewards his mouth with a glorious taste.

“So, if you’ll wait here, the dresser will come to collect you to get ready for the party.” She says.

Michael nods as he pops another forkful of pasta in his mouth. The servants all file out of his room, quietly shutting the doors behind. The crackling of the fire is Michael’s only company as he finishes his meal. The flavors contorting and mixing into a rather sour aftertaste in his mouth, but his stomach has never been fuller to the point where he almost swears he won’t eat again.

He walks into the living room and slouches back into the velvet couch. He folds his feet underneath him and keeps his hands in his lap.

He hears the door click open and in steps in different servant.

She’s of middle-age and wears a more extravagant gown of cobalt and pink. “I assume you’re the “guest?” Michael?”

Michael nods, not favoring her tone. “Follow me.” She simply says then turns around and walks out.

Michael sighs knowing that this is going to be, difficult for lack of a better word. He follows her into his dressing room where she immediately begins to rifle through clothes he never picked. “Kai has already sent up your clothes. The maidens and I will help you change.”

“Fine.” Michael replies placidly.

He follows the woman to a three-paneled mirror similar to the one in a garment store. Only this one has exquisite bordering and delicate craftsmanship to form in the shape of a bird’s wings.

The process itself is torturous. Swaths of many fabrics are folded on a table, and a measuring tape rolled neatly next to a pincushion with multicolored pins poking out of it. Another one is around the dresser’s neck.

“We need to take your measurements if we’re going to be making some clothes for you.” She insists.

“It would be easier if I just went shopping.” He grumbles.

“Once we know your measurements, shopping will be _much_ easier. Now much longer, I promise.”

Sighing in aggravation, he takes deep breathes, and he tries to hold still as she helps him stand straight so that the dresser takes his measurements.

“Hold your arms out.” she instructs. He obeys, slowly exhaling and inhaling so that his breathing expands his shoulders than his stomach. Suddenly the woman pokes him between the ribs. He squeaks and instinctively claps his arms to his sides.

“Oh relax dear. Now come on, the sooner we can get this done, the sooner you can be left alone.”

“What makes you think I want to be alone?”

“Well, you certainly don’t want my company.” She clucks. “Oh don’t scowl – you ruin your face when you look like that!”

She reaches and pinches Michael’s cheek, and Michael pulls away.

“Are you mad? I’m not some court idiot.”

The woman chuckles. “You’re still a man, and so long as you’re under my charge, you’ll act like it or gods help me!”

Michael sighs and holds out his arms horizontally. The woman wraps the tape around his waist and draws it in snug. She strips the tape away and pulls a pen out of her bun to mark a pad of paper. Her eyes widen at the paper.

“Goodness, you’re muscular.” She says smiling.

Michael clamps his arms in against himself against like chicken wings as she fusses around him. “Is it always like this – Ow!” He jolts as the woman pinches his right on the fleshy part of his underarm. “I’m starting to regret this.” he murmurs. Then he feels the woman take the tape and string it around his chest. He reflexively smacks her hand away.

“Oh, I hate you,” she grumbles, making a note on the sheet of paper. She pulls the tape away again, this time drawing out one of Michael’s arms to measure its circumference. Scowling, Michael gives up with a huff, resigning himself to be handled and measured and cataloged.

He watches as she leaves for a moment and later brings back several sets of clothes that are heavily embroidered, and luxurious. Precious gems are sewn into the clothing as well - pearls, silver and gold too.

Lifting his arms, Michael feels the delicate linen of the silk, white shirt as it is draped over his body, then a pair of light-grey trousers, then a gold vest, and a deep teal jacket with fine brass buckles down the front and the glimmer of delicate golden thread skimming the high collar and edges. He steps into new polished leather boots, the supple leather gives his toes room to wriggle, something that never happened with his old pair. They touch up his hair and then he turns to face the mirror.

Michael’s eyes can’t help but widen at how difference he looks. Compared to the man usually smothered in dirt and has dry blood smeared on his cheeks and hands, this one . . . this man is of royal blood.

Someone who eats with the proper fork but still has the eye for adventure. The Arendelle crest is embroidered on the bottom of the jacket, and Michael lets his fingers spider crawl up to his neck where his fingers clasp around a chain to a silver pendant.

He walks out, adjusting the cuffs as a couple of other servant women are cleaning up the dinner table. One of them gasps, and her eyes widen, tongue rolling to the floor.

“You look, absolutely handsome.” She says, a dangerous, hungry glint in her eyes.

“Thank you.” Michael admits. “I’ve never had such nice clothes before.”

He cringes as he hears the awing of the staff, except for the dresser who only looks at her watch.

“Yes, yes all very pretty and such, but there is a party going on and Her Royal Majesty and Her Highness are going to be introduced soon!” she urges.

Michael looks to the clock. It reads six to seven. The party starts at eight-thirty.

He rolls his eyes, but grins as he follows the dresser out into the hallway. But not before he slips a couple of daggers into his new boots, and slipping the other between his belt. Michael follows the dresser through the tall door and into the front foyer of the castle, where guests are already filing in through the front.

Extravagant, flamboyant, expensive and very colorful outfits are worn to make sure all who witness them are very aware of their high rank. Long house jackets are worn by noblemen and the length of the jacket often is an indicator of the wealth of the individual. Women in royalty wear long flowing gowns and very fancy hats or headpieces that are so ornate that they hinder the wearer from doing anything practical at all. 

Michael’s heart triples in speed at the sight of so many nobles and dukes and lords of other kingdoms filing into the foyer. Looking over the banister of the cherry wood finish railing he digs his fingernails into the wood. Powdered and pale, the women look like stale pastries. Tall and with garnish, pointed masks, the men seemed like predators.

“Princess Anna wished to have a Masquerade Ball.”

Michael jostles and whirls around to find Kai. He wears his usual colored clothes, though the only difference now is that they have ruffles around the collar and the cuffs of the sleeves.

“The perfect place to ambush the royal siblings.” Michael comments.

“Come, if you’ll follow me I’ll take you to another entrance to the party without so much of a crowd.” Kai smiles.

“Now you’re starting to get how I work.” Michael gives a ghost of a smile.

They maneuver through the servants’ hallways of the castle, which have no windows, not hint of the world outside. Michael can almost feel the paranoia emanating from the walls, like the terminal itself is terrified of unfamiliar eyes. If only they knew what Michael’s eyes were searching for.

As they walk, he gets a glimpse of Kai’s hands, pressed to his sides. The skin around his fingernails is raw and red, like he chewed it away overnight. The fingernails themselves are jagged. No wonder he wears gloves. Michael remembers when his own nails looked that way, when the memories of failure crept into every dream and every ideal thought. Perhaps it’s the agony of waiting that has Kai doing this.

He follows the steward to a door tucked away in the corner and enters the back of the room. They pass under an alcove, and stone walls hug in close around them in a short, curving, almost tunnel-like passageway. It funnels them into another room of about the same size. Reaching the archway into the next room, they pull themselves back to one side to avoid being trampled by a long train of revelers. Hands linked, they rush past the men, screaming and shrieking with laughter.

“Before we go, here.” Kai says as he hands Michael a mask of pure black. Only big enough to cover his eyes and nose. Michael looks to him and quirks a brow. “Just as a precaution. You’ll stand out like a sore thumb without it.”

Exhaling sharply, Michael sticks out his tongue before tying the satin ribbons around his head. After adjusting and fidgeting, he gives Kai a nod of approval.

When he enters the ballroom, he’s nearly floored by the size and grandness of the room.

The ballroom is white as snow and decorated on pastels, opened large and wide around a circular dance floor filled with revolving dancers. Glittering chandeliers drip from the towering ceiling, paper lanterns of blue and white and silver are strung. The whole room glistened and sparkled like the inside of a Faberge egg. At the very back of the room, poised atop a three-step dais sits s couple of thrones.

Dressed like iridescent dragonflies, the musicians sit huddled in one corner. They play their instruments feverishly, bowstrings fluttering like the wings of the insets they represent. The rhythm they keep is a steady one-two-three, one-two-three. Dancers turn like dervishes, bead-and-gemstone-encrusted skirts flaring out.

People stand scattered throughout the ballroom dressed like peacocks and jesters, demons, and queens. There are feather masks and silk masks, glittering gowns with belled sleeves, top hats and long cloaks.

Kai dismisses himself to aid the Queen, leaving Michael to mingle.

The rebel slinks close the sides as he navigates his way through. Tall, shuttered doors are thrown open; the breeze carrying the scent of gardenias, which were arranged in tall silver vases, artfully placed on the tabletops.

A monstrously huge oil painting hangs along one wall, but it is covered with a black cloth. It is somewhat transparent so that he could see the faces, but not entirely make out who they are. Their faces, their identity concealed off by a black veil. He wanders over to the painting, gazing in awe at its intimidating size.

“It’s a shame isn’t it?” a voice says.

Michael turns to find a young woman wearing a bird’s mask. Her golden-bronze arms are coated in black lace sleeves, her thick dark hair piled atop her head beneath bands of silver, secured with large roses and long rapes of black ribbon. She looks like a queen, her full dress a deep bloodred, accented with black.

“After all these years and the sisters are still in mourning.” She speaks. She turns to her head to gaze at the painting.

“Mourning,” Michael whispers. Then he remembers how Elsa ascended the throne after the death of her parents.

The woman nods. “This is how the family mourns.”

Michael turns back to the portrait. There are thick, braided strings on either side of the painting, decorative tassels on end. The strings maneuver the cloth. Rather than cause a disturbance, he looks around to make sure there are no guards on patrol. At least one stands at each corner of the wide, rectangular room on duty. Arms folded, they only exchange a nod and smile toward the guests.

Michael reaches his hand out and brushes his thumb underneath the material. Slowly he lifts the cloth inch by inch. The portrait progressively reveals the hand of the queen – as recognized by dainty fingers with a ruffled cuff and exquisite gemstone rings. He leans closer as the music of the ballroom becomes slow. He only catches a glimpse of blue before trumpet blasts through the room. He jolts and lets the fabric drop.

The trumpeter keeps buzzing on his instrument as the crowd gathers near the thrones, where to guards stand ready. Michael makes his way to the banquet table to avoid the crowd but still catch a glimpse of the Queen and Princess.

He bumps into a hard body and instantly says, “Excuse me.”

“Oh don’t worry about it.” The man replies.

Michael looks to find a quite muscular and strong man with blond hair. He also has light brown eyes and fair skin with a few freckles across his nose. His nose is quite big and his cheeks are rather red.

“I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He continues. Suddenly a reindeer pops up behind him and Michael’s eyes widen in shock. “Sven! Sven, stop it! There will be plenty of carrots for you later!” The man says as he tries to push the reindeer back. “S-sorry about him. He loves the smell of that carrot cake.”

Michael nods and gives him half a smile. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He makes his way to the table and his eyes widen as it is covered with an elaborate feast. A crown roast filet tied with rosemary, and exotic dishes he’d never seen. A while roast pig with an apple stuck in its mouth. A standing rib roast with little papered puffs on the top of each rib, sat next to a mangled-looking goose covered with chestnuts and creams, rolls and breads, collards and beets and spreads Michael can’t name. Ocean creatures drizzled in sauces or begging to be dipped in spicy concoctions. Countless cheeses, beds, vegetables, waterfalls of wine and streams of sprites that flicker with fizz.

A tall candelabrum stands in the corner, and it’s right by the secret door that leads into a broom closet. Michael peers over his shoulder and checks to make sure he’s not attracting attention. Then with one swoop of his hand, all three candles blow out. He then slips into the room and makes haste to change.

In less than a minute, more than happy to ditch the tight and overly extravagant clothing, he feels rejuvenated to be back in his leather armor.

The neck-to-toe black outfit is all made from a dark fabric – as thick as leather, but without the shine. It is like a suit of armor, only skintight and made from some odd cloth, not metal. He can feel the weight of his weapons where they are concealed – so neatly that even someone patting him down might think they are merely ribbing – and he swings his arms experimentally.

He discovered this room during his tour, and hid his bow and arrows before that vulture of a woman came to dress him. Rotating around the room he finds an air vent towards the top of the room. He climbs an old cabinet covered with a tarp, then leaps to the architraves and flattens his back to the wall as he inches towards the vent.

With a wrench, he unscrews the nail and toggles through in a crouch. The vent leads right to the one of few thick wooden support beams that hopscotch above the guests. Staying crouched down, Michael pulls the mask over his nose and stays tucked in the corner and keeps an eye on the guests now that he has a better view of everyone in the room.

One guest in particular that catches his attention. A man wearing a flame mask and a bright bejeweled red and orange suit. What better way to rebel than to dress as the opposite element of the Queen.

Now he may be giving the enemy too much credit, but it could be possible that he could be the obvious distraction while another opponent attacks the Queen. Michael shakes his head and decides to keep him his eyes moving.

He soon hears Kai announce. “Queen Elsa, of Arendelle.”

Michael looks and his eyes widen. A beautiful young woman with a tall, slender figure walks with that of dignity and oblige. She has long platinum, braided blonde hair that reaches her elbows with snowflake incrustations, and wisps of her bangs slicked back on top of her head. 

Then there’s her blue eyes, and pale skin; which appears to be fair and bright with a light dusting of freckles. She wears a crystal-blue, off-the-shoulder dress made out of ice with a knee-high slit, a crystallized bodice, and translucent, powder blue sleeves. Covering her feet are high heels made entirely from ice and, attached to the back of her bodice is a long, transparent cape of sheer ice which is decorated with large snowflakes and sweeps the floor.

“Wow.” Michael hears himself mumble. He instantly folds his lips in. he never expected the queen to be so, young.

He eases his way along the architrave closer to the thrown but makes sure to stay out of sight of the other guests.

The crowd applauses and Kai then introduces Princess Anna. There’s a moment of delay before she comes running in holding her skirt.

Michael could tell she’s very eccentric, optimistic, but awkward and _far_ from elegant.

Anna is a beautiful young girl with a slender figure and a fair complexion. She has glittering blue eyes, rosy cheeks, thin lips, long brown hair tied into two pigtail braids, bangs on the right side of her forehead, and sharing the same smatter of freckles. She seems notably goofy and highly active, but still just as pretty.

Her dress is a black sweetheart bodice with off-the-shoulder dark green sleeves and rose, teal, blue and purple prints on it, and has greenish-gold lacing, a black satin-laced necklace with a bronze pendant of Arendelle's symbol, an olive drab skirt with sashes, both cream petticoat and bloomers, white stockings, a pair of black ballet shoes. A part of her hair is braided and used as a headband, a green comb-shaped barrette with a couple satin ribbons attached to her hair.

Michael rests an arm on his knee and gazes at the two sisters as they greet the crowd. The crowd awes and claps again as the sisters mingle with patrons that come forth.

The musicians start again and the crowd disperses to make room for the dancers. Michael presses against a thick column under an awning and watches as people yelp and flutter about. Other members stand in groups with glasses filled with wine and talk amongst one another. Dancers churn around them like storm-tossed flowers, their heads held to either side as they whirled with abandonment.

H creeps along until he reaches an adjacent room holding more guest. Embroidered pillows and carpets lined the floor, while thick clouds of sweet smoke haze the air. Lethargic courtiers sit, stooped, and stand around hookah pipes and bowls of smoking incense.

A heavy perfume pervades the space, making Michael dizzy. A young woman decked with white ostrich feathers and diamonds lies stretched on a divan. Her ivory slipper hanging from one toe, a glass of wine in each hand, she laughs hysterically as a tiny man in a green and yellow jester’s costume took one false fall after another.

Nothing seems suspicious so Michael returns to the ballroom. Elsa is now dancing and mingling with guests, while Anna is . . . is she dancing with a snowman?

And is that snowman . . . _alive_?!

The princess giggles and spins with the little snowman and taps her feet to the rhythm of the music. Kai did say Elsa had special powers. But the ability to create life in inanimate things; that’s . . . absurd, but astounding.

Michael keeps his eyes on the guests as Elsa returns to the throne. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flicker of light in the crowd. He turns to find the guest wearing the fire suit heading towards the back of the room.

He slinks further to the side, nearer to the Queen and draws his bow as he watches the person enters the secret room. His heart jars in his chest and thanks the gods for bringing his bow with.

Keeping close to the wall, Michael shields behind a column as he watches the man crawl out of the vent wearing a dark armor. The armor is red and black, with many straps and buckles running down the chest and across the waist. There’s a belt of daggers at his waist as well as a bow and sheath of arrows. He wears a black mask that covers all skin of his head, leaving his thick black hair exposed. The eyeholes have screen vision and Michael is weary at the sharp angles near the nose, too bulky to just be the shape of the nose. Built in filters? Starting along the jawline a flame design crawls up his temples and disappears into his hair.

Still no one takes notice as he draws his bow and readies an arrow. Michael slings his own bow off his shoulders and loads it with a blunt arrow. With no point, these arrows are used to kill birds and small game without mangling. Cheap and simply made, the blunt arrow breaks on impact and is designed to interact with the environment at a distance, such as hitting a switch, without wasting more expensive options. They are excellent for simple distractions, thanks to their low cost.

As the assassin takes aim and pulls back the string, Michael pulls and shoots for the upper limb of the assassin’s bow. Just as he releases the string it hits and knocks the arrow off course. The assassin grunts in shock.

The arrow shoots through the air and whizzes past Elsa’s ear sticking to the cushion of the throne chair. All attention is drawn to the assassin and he slings his bow over his back and leaps off the architrave diving for the crowd.

People scream and scatter as the assassin hops across two of heads of the guests before landing in the middle of a circle of guards.

The first guard he spins kicks and knocks him out instantly. As another guard tries to even pull his sword, the assassin grabs him by the forearm and throws him over and to the ground. Kai eases the sisters further back into the corner of the room. Another guard grabs the assassin from behind and as two more run towards him, he kicks his legs to the side, nailing both in the chest before wrenching himself free and spin kicking the guard holding him. When all are down, he draws two serrated daggers sprints towards the direction of the sisters.

Michael rounds to the other side of the room to being behind Kai and the Queen. 

The assassin leaps in the air and raises his weapons.

“Elsa!” Anna screams.

Before he lands, another blunt arrow drives into his cheek. The assassin is sent flying back, but rolls with the momentum and comes up on one knee. The guests gasp and look in Michael’s direction. He stands with sword in hand and snarls through his mask.

The guests scream frantic again as Michael leaps off raising his sword. The assassin switches back to his bow and quickly shoots an arrow. Michael knocks it aside easily and their weapons clang.

Michael instantly kicks the assassin in the stomach and with their weapons still crossed, he pushes up and quickly grabs the man about the chest and hurls him to the floor. The assassin skips on his back before coming up on one knee, sliding across the polished floor.

“Well that was unexpected.” He says. “I was told I’m handling this case alone.”

“I’m not here to kill anyone.” Michael replies, the mask warping his voice into an unearthly growl.

Michael spins his sword in dizzying circles before aiming it at the assassin. The assassin in return loads an arrow in his bow.

“Bet you’ll run out of arrows before I run out of sword.” Michael says.

“You think you’re a match for me?” The assassin mocks. “I can easily plant one right between your eyes.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

The assassin releases the arrow and begins speed-shooting. Michael blocks and slices every arrow aimed at him, spinning his blade in a stylized way as a form of mockery. More guards pour into the ballroom and surround the assassin and Michael.

“Hmm, this seems to have gotten a little too interesting.” The assassin says.

Michael notices as he reaches behind him, a subtle gesture to the untrained eye. Michael can see a small ball between his thumb and forefinger. He lunges forward as a guard goes to shoot a crossbow arrow at the assassin.

The assassin blocks the arrow and slams the ball to the ground causing a small explosion and eruption of smoke. The very second the smoke billows Michael leaps, expecting to tackle a body but comes out with nothing. He rolls and comes up on one knee looking around the room.

He manages to find one of the few doors of the ballroom open. Michael ignores the calls of the guards and dashes forward. One guard steps in front of him and readies his sword. Michael spins his sword between his hands before knocking the guard’s weapons aside and rams the heel of his palm into the man’s jaw. Sidesteps the calling guard and out onto the balcony.

His instincts propels him to the right and around a corner before he skids to a stop at a small patio setting. Another set of doors with glass mosaics are closed, and vines of lavenders coil up and around the pergola.

Michael grips his sword as he listens to the silence. There’s a rustle of the leaves and he shoots a dagger at a small pot atop the rafter of the pergola. Someone yelps and the assassin falls from the gathering of floral. Michael sticks two more daggers into the sleeves and the boots of the assassin’s uniform, and pulls out a third spinning it between his fingers.

“You know, for someone who’s supposed to be an assassin, you’re not very good at your job.” Michael mocks.

The assassin struggles to pry his arms and legs loose as Michael approaches, standing to the side and placing his dagger to throat of the assassin.

“Who sent you?” Michael demands.

“I’ve been sworn to secrecy.” He replies. “And you can’t kill me without risk of losing the only source of information.”

“Your value is for me to decide. I was hired to stop you and I did. I could kill you and leave with full payment, then still be hired again to stop another.” Michael coldly chuckles. “You are worthless to me.”

The assassin is about to reply, when the doors open and the guards from the dining hall of the castle pour out and around Michael again.

This time he stands and sheaths his dagger; stepping aside to let the guards free the assassin for arrest.

One guard approaches Michael. “Sir, with me please.”

Michael nods and keeps his mask over his face as he follows the guard back inside, only to find at least seven more waiting inside with swords drawn.


	4. Chapter 4

Michael paces his cell the in the jail of the castle. He fights back his anger as best he can at the betrayal of Kai’s words. He told him all the guards were informed of the ‘situation’, then after he takes down the assassin, he’s led back into a room held at sword-point. He didn’t put up a fight, just to show who side he is on.

Still he was led to the dungeon and after the door slammed shut, the guards left.

Michael turns when he reaches the wall. It’s only been two hours since the attack in the ballroom and already a staff member came to doctor Michael’s wounds, and distribute a painkiller, and he’s eaten, but no one has told him what’s going on outside. No matter how forcefully he’s asked them.

He thought Kai would’ve come by now. Michael drops to the edge of his cot. He had trusted the steward, and it’s landed him in jail despite his constant reassurance. Still, Michael is trying to believe that once the mess clears and Kai explains himself to the Queen and Princess, which could take hours itself, things will be easier. They and the guests all saw him fighting the assassin, and even _he_ thought Michael was on his side. And he clearly said he wasn’t there to kill anyone. They really have no means not to trust him. Whether it’s to reassure himself or chastise his own thoughts of betrayal, Michael doesn’t know.

He is still trying to trust Kai, but every part of him, every fiber and every nerve, is straining toward freedom, not just from this cell but from the prison of this city beyond it.

Maybe he never should’ve taken the job.

The dungeon is a dank, smelly pit carved out of the foundation of the castle. Individual cells are simply hollowed-out husks within the stone. The walls are slimy with moisture, iron bars block the view of wooden door’s little window, and a few half-hearted torches burn along the aisle between cells. With the heavy-iron cuffs around his wrists, the chains loop through iron circles welded onto the back wall of the cell and restrict his ability to go more than halfway towards the door and to either side of the box of a room.

The guards didn’t reprimand any of his weapons, so that can only mean it won’t take long to decide his fate. That can be both good and bad. He studies the shackles around his wrists. Tough, and no rust. His wrists ache against the cold iron. But he’s been taught to free himself from worse. The weapon’s master of the rebels had bound him from head to toe and made him learn how to get loose, even if it meant spending two days prostrate on the ground in his own filth, or dislocating his shoulder to get out. so, not surprisingly at all, he has the chains off in a matter of seconds.

Heavy footsteps sound at the main entrance, and Michael looks up to see Kai, blazing torch in one hand. He stops in front of Michael’s cell, and the rebel keeps his expression neutral.

“I . . .” Kai starts, but closes his mouth. “I, I’m sorry that -”

Michael stands and lets Kai see the cuffs fall and clang to the floor. This makes the steward clamp his mouth shut and a nervous guise comes across his face. He swallows and clears his throat, determined to have his words sorted out.

“Michael, please understand that I made sure that the guards on patrol at the party were well informed -”

Michael walks towards the door and in seconds he grabs a handful of Kai’s scarf and shirt and yanks him back, slamming Kai’s face against the bars. The clang rings out throughout the jail and Michael jerks him twice more before he hauls his fist up bringing Kai eyelevel with him.

“So you said, but now look where I am.” His voice is low and raspy. Kai’s eyes suddenly show the fear that Michael has seen so often in prey, and he snarls. “You said they were all informed, yet when I was brought back, they held me at sword-point and hauled me down here!”

Michael’s voice rises. He doesn’t know where the anger is coming from, except that he can feel it writhing inside him, violent and vicious and the strongest he’s felt all day. So he decides to feed it. He shoves Kai back and he stumbles to the floor.

“I am not a man to be crossed.” He nearly growls.

Kai coughs and pushes himself to his feet. “I . . . I understand; and please know how sorry I am, sir.” He stutters. “I, I guess that the guards were afraid to show it in front of the Queen -!”

“So they dragged me down here because they’re _afraid_ to show that, plan, to the Queen?!” Michael roars.

“It’s more complicated than that, Sir Michael.”

“The hell it is.”

“It took some time to calm Princess Anna and to escort all the guests home. But I assure you, the Queen fully understands and trusts you.”

“Then why the hell am I still here?”

Kai sighs. “The Queen is, grateful, that you saved her, and she has agreed to let you go, tomorrow morning.”

Michael gives him a confused look. Then he tries to think. The guards didn’t take his weapons. Is this supposed to be a test?

He sighs and steps back, sitting back down on his cot. “Can I at least get something to eat?” he snips.

“Your meal will be delivered shortly.” Kai says, he takes out a small handkerchief and presses it to his forehead.

Michael sighs. “I’m sorry, Kai.”

Kai looks to him surprised for a short moment. He presses the handkerchief to his forehead and gives Michael a small smile. “Quite alright, sir. I understand your frustration, and I promise I will make it up to you.”

Michael coldly chuckles and shakes his head. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”

Kai only smiles more and takes his leave. There’s the bang of the door at the end of the main hall. As observes the contents of the cell, his thoughts drift to the assassin.

No doubt he will be interrogated, but where are they keeping him? This seems to be the only holding facility, and yet he has yet to see guards drag him down here as well. Perhaps he’s left in conditions that are far worse?

Michael decides to sharpen his blades with fallen bits of brick, line the fletches of his arrows and practice his form. Before long, a guard comes down and peeks through the bars of the door. Despite Kai’s word of release, Michael can’t help but feel bitterness towards the guards.

“Well if it isn’t the shit-bucket I ordered.” He sneers. The guard’s eyes narrow and the middle door pop open to reveal a tray of food. Michael’s nose wrinkles in disgust and approaches the door. “And whatever _that_ is. Can’t you lay some pasta for me?”

“This is a dungeon, not a bed and breakfast!” The guard snaps back. “You will eat whatever I bring!”

“You mean whatever the Queen tells you to bring.” Michael replies.

The guard growls. “If her Majesty didn’t need you, I’d teach you some manners.”

“Oh really? And what does she need me for?” He quirks an eyebrow.

The guard clamps his lips together, realizing he made a mistake. “Just watch your tongue boy!”

He then storms off out of the dungeon.

Michael clicks his tongue and then grins. With soft clinks, he twirls the keys on his finger. Course he could just pick the lock, but for some reason, the thought of showing the Queen how he easily acquired the keys from the guards seems a lot more satisfying. He pulls his mask over his face.

Slipping through the dungeon door, he glides down the hall and up towards the warmer levels of the castle above. He navigates his way through the castle, nimble as a cat and smooth as a snake, his memory guiding him. He soon finds the council room where he hears voices muffle through the walls. He slinks to the one wall and peeks around.

Of the voices, Kai’s is the first he recognizes. “Your Majesty, please understand. We did this for your own good.”

He hears a female’s frustrated sigh and the pacing of heels against the wood floor.

“Please let me explain.”

“Okay . . . okay.” Another sigh. Then there’s a shift of fabric and Michael watches her sit on the throne chair.

He listens closely and hears a thick cracking sound. His eyes flick to the floor and he sees the polished wood fading in color, a thin dusting of thin ice permeating over it.

“Explain yourself.” Elsa demands, either not caring or not paying attention to the ice that forms beneath her feet.

“Y-Your Majesty, Michael is an elite Master of the shadows. He’s a thief of the greater good.” Garther stutters to say. “He’s very good in what he does -”

“And what would that be?!” Anna interrupts. “Stealing?! Killing?!”

“Anna, please.” Elsa’s stern tone overpowers.

“If you recall, Your Grace, Michael said to the assassin that he wasn’t there to kill anyone. And he came along with the guards quietly and without fight.” Kai reminds.

“What is, Michael’s, back story? What exactly do you know about him?” Elsa interrogates. He can almost see her lip curl when saying his name.

“Uh well, that’s where it gets, touchy Your Majesty.” Kai tone stiffens. “He, he’s had a rough past. And this is just from mere observation, he explains little to none, and out of respect I didn’t pry.”

“Oh well! That’s very promising!” Anna squeaks again.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesties, no disrespect. But Michael seems like the kind of man who is, highly dedicated to what he does; and if he wanted to kill you at the party, he wouldn’t have even shot that arrow at the assassin.” Kai says.

“Kai,” Elsa’s voice chimes. “I understand why you did this, however that doesn’t overlook the fact that you brought a stranger – whom of which you know little about – into the castle against my better judgment.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“A-and how do you know he won’t betray you in the end? What is it about a man dressed in black and leather that seems so trusting?!” Anna says.

Michael chuckles and steps around the doorway.

“Well for one thing, he surrendered. He lowered his weapons . . .” He leans against the doorframe, spinning the guard’s keys on his finger. “Oh, and he broke out of the jail without picking the lock or harming a guard.”

The room falls silent and the air thickens as Michael can sense the women’s fear spike. He quickly notices the large man from before with the reindeer and the snowman, next to the throne chair. Princess Anna screams and instantly runs behind the man.

Michael steps into the room and tosses Kai the keys. His black cape flows like a back phantom behind him. He keeps his gaze on Queen Elsa, who sits with such a stiff posture it seems like her spine is replaced by a steel bar. He watches her breathing. It’s long and her shoulders move with a slight shudder.

She’s scared.

He walks with a swagger, amused at how he has such an easy grip of fear on the Queen.

He stands a respectful distance from the throne, giving the Queen and her sister their space. Michael softens his face, even attempting to smile even if the Queen can’t see. He bows and say, “Your Majesty.”

“How, how did-! You! How did you –?!” Anna stutters.

“If you let me, I can explain and answer your questions, to an extent.” He carefully phrases. “First being that I’m not here to kill you.”

Anna and Elsa exchange glances and Elsa sighs. “Fine.”

“What?! Elsa!”

“Anna, something is going on here, and if Michael can shed some light on this, then what else do we have to lose?” Elsa reasons.

Anna sighs, and after exchanging a weary glance, she consents to her sister. She goes to stand next to the throne, still eyeing Michael wearily.

“So, Michael, what can you tell us about yourself.” Elsa asks, the knuckles of her folded hands are near white.

“Depends on what you want to know.” he purrs, stuffing hands in his pockets. The shift alone makes the guards twitch their hands to their weapons.

Elsa exhales heavily. “I want to know why you’re here.”

“I was hired by your butler here to protect you, and to figure out if someone’s trying to have you killed. Which seems to be true.” Michael slyly says.

“Okay, so now, what is it you do?” She proceeds to ask.

“Hmmm,” Michael ponders trying to find the right words. What he does isn’t bad, but for others it could still be seen as crime. Plus with the bounty put out from his old kingdom, it can easily reach him should he remove his hood. “I guess you can call me a bounty hunter.”

“You ‘guess’?” Anna instantly questions. “See, I don’t know about this guy Elsa. . .”

“Anna.” Elsa calmly silences her with an extended hand. “How so?” She directs towards Michael.

“I hunt down those who do wrong and after roughing them up, I let the guards take care of them. Though unfortunately, sometimes, I need to take the law into my own hands.”

Elsa’s lips press into a tight line as she ponders. She doesn’t have much to go off of, and they both know that, and despite him wanting to tell her enough that she can trust him, his reputation will tarnish in turn of earning her trust. She only has his skills and presentation to go off of.

“Whoever is plotting your assassination could have minions hiding in your kingdom, perhaps even servants in your own castle. Now I’m not saying this to discourage you or make you paranoid. From who was hired, I’d say they’re amateurs. But that only means they’ll learn from their mistakes and improve.” Michael explains.

Elsa sits erect while Anna leans her hip against the throne. The Queen’s eyes are large, but stunning, her collarbone distinct. This is a woman who can be one’s worst enemy, or greatest ally.

“From years of experience, I can safely say that these dealings are down and dirty. I know my way around those kinds of people and places. I can help you.” He says as he takes a step towards the throne. The guards set their hands on their weapons. “And all I ask in return is pay, and your trust.”

Michael bends to one knee and lowers his head.

“If you allow it, I will protect you with my life, Your Majesty.”

He keeps his head low as Elsa and Anna exchange looks. Anna’s guard seems to have dropped an inch, her face now softer with concern and debate. Elsa rises from her throne.

“Very well. I will see through that you have full access and privileges in our kingdom. I’ll also notify the guards of your new title. Wouldn’t want them thinking you are part of the common rabble now.”

Michael raises his head. “I thank you, Your Majesty.”

“But I have a request.” Elsa holds up her hand, palm up. “I wish to join you.”

The entire room goes silent and compared with Anna, the snowman, the reindeer and the big, muscled man, and Kai’s shocked faces, Michael only raises an eyebrow in surprise.

“I’ll not stand idly by while an assailant slander’s my name and slaughter’s my sister. Those are the conditions I require if you wish to roam my kingdom free and without bounty.”

Michael looks into her eyes, and despite the concern he sees, her determination blazes within her; a flame forged in love and sacrifice, a rather polar counterpart to her normal element.

He nods. “Very well. I grant your request. But you will be at my side at all times. My life is not safe, Queen Elsa, as you will soon discover. But know that regardless of the risk, I will bring you with me.”

“I’m not scared.” Elsa says.

“Even I am sometimes afraid, as will you often be.”

The Queen shakes her head. “Scared or not,” she says, staring him in the eyes. “I will not show it.”

A foolish boast, one Michael has heard a thousand times. But looking at the woman, seeing her resolve and courage, he knew without a doubt that he believes her.


	5. Chapter 5

Elsa had made arrangements for Michael to stay in the castle for his time in Arendelle, and ordered all the guards to withhold arresting him when in the market. Anything to not run into that living snowman.

The thought of something as simple as snow being able to move and talk . . . It still sends a shiver down his spine.

As if it was tough enough convincing Elsa of his loyalties, it is even more grueling to persuade Elsa to ditch her elegant gown for more common, and frankly suitable clothes.

Michael had to explain that if there’s someone out to kill them in her kingdom, walking out in her gowns would be no different than covering herself in bloody meat and jumping into a shark tank.

It’s been three days after the party and the assassination attempt on Elsa and Anna. Michael took the time to walk around the kingdom and find the lowest of places for criminals. After asking around and breaking a few fingers, Michael discovered a place called the Pit. It’s as good a place of anywhere to start his search of whom is after the queen and princess.

As he waits by the castle gates, he goes over their plan again. With Elsa insisting she and her sister join Michael on his hunt for the assailants, their first maneuver is to seek out any lowlifes or thieves’ guilds within the kingdom, to see if the source is on the inside. If not, they will branch out to other neighboring kingdoms and go from there.

Twirling a dagger between his fingers, Michael waits as villagers pass by and give him questionable looks. Still dressed in his leather suit, mask and cowl about his head, he revels in the stares from citizens. Most women give him long glances since his armor turns him into death incarnate, his mask warping his voice in a deep rasp. The voice of a demon, not a man.

After a few minutes, he hears footsteps behind him and turns to find Elsa and Anna in disguise.

Replacing their silk dresses are placid colored clothes. Elsa, with her hair still in a braid, has a burette hat on her head followed with a simple black tunic under a buttoned vest all snuggled into a leather jacket. Then trousers that are tucked into brown leather boots. Anna has her hair still in pigtails, then a long-sleeve tunic, a pair of trousers and shoes. A leather cloak about her shoulders, she pulls the hood up over her head.

“Not bad.” Michael says. “At least no one will recognize you, much.”

“It feels weird, yet rather, rejuvenating.” Elsa’s cool voice speaks.

“So, Michael,” Anna claps her hands together. “Where do we start with our, Assassin Hunt?”

Michael immediately claps his hand over Anna’s mouth and almost growls at her when he speaks. “First of all you can shut your mouth and not blab our business out to the entire village!” he hisses.

Anna mumbles under Michael’s palm but he presses harder.

“Anything you disclose, anything at all can and will be dangerous to you and your sister.” He whispers angrily through grit teeth. “Everything has ears in the village, and they will listen intently. So knowing you, shut your mouth and let me and Elsa do the talking.”

Anna frowns and grumbles.

“Enough.”

Michael’s word strikes her like a slap. He then lets go of her mouth and takes the lead, practically leaving them behind him. Elsa goes to quickly comfort Anna before taking her hand and following him into the shopping square of the city.

Anna wraps her cloak nervously around herself and follows Elsa into the sparse crowds still drifting stall to stall in the lower market, haggling over produce, rubbing linens between fingers to check for quality and whispering in their wake.

The girls never saw their kingdom as rather, intimidating, but as they drift into the more, ominous parts of town, he can see Anna huddling closer to Elsa, and Elsa makes sure to stay close to Michael’s side. He keeps his hands inside his cloak, hiding all motions he could do whether reaching for a weapon or hiding his coin purses.

Flicking his hood of his cloak over his head, Michael makes sure to look back at the girls, and he roughly stops to adjust Anna’s hood and Elsa’s hat to hide their hair that makes them easily recognizable.

Neither of the girls like the idea of risking their lives by going through the lower market alone; in fact, Elsa suggested to Anna to stay in the castle, but she refused. But they’re both desperate for the chance to do what no one else seems willing to do – find and capture the person responsible for the assassination attempt.

As Michael keeps an eye out for anyone who looks suspicious, he constantly looks over his shoulder to find the girls struggling to keep up. Finally he decides to take Elsa’s wrist and tug her towards him. In turn she pulls along Anna, who has to hold onto the hood of her cloak to prevent it from dropping.

Michael pulls Elsa closer and keeps a gentle arm around her, his hand between her shoulder blades. Elsa doesn’t seem bothered, or perhaps she’s just weighing her options. It’s better to snuggle close to him rather than be constantly observed by other men leaning against the brick walls with cigarettes in their mouths, gazing at the girls with a predatory gleam in their eyes.

He instantly notices that the market is laid out like a man’s back. The main road forms the spine and leads towards the north mountain, while smaller roads and alleys branch off like ribs running east and west. Michael can feel Elsa’s heart pound a little faster as he aims for the left side of the main road and starts walking.

The first stall they reach is a trestle table laden with a few remaining crates of juicy pears and thick-skinned melons. A woman and her husband squeeze the fruit between their fingers before loading up their sack, murmuring to each other as they weigh each choice. Ignoring them, Michael pulls the girls along. A glance at the sky tells him they have about thirty minutes until twilight.

Puddles gouge the gritty roads, courtesy of an early-afternoon rain shower. They pass the butcher, already cleaning his knives and packing away the last of mutton, and Elsa wrinkles her nose as the rusty scent of drying sheep’s blood lies heavy on the air, mingling with the smell of mud. Anna meanwhile is trying to hold down her lunch.

Two more stalls down, they reach the candle maker’s and the first of the west, running roads. Michael whispers to the girls to tuck their heads down, hiding both their hair and their faces beneath the hat and hood. No one stops them as they make the left turn, though he can see the stares burning through the girls’ hat and hood. Probably wondering why the Queen and Princess are outside the castle, but with the story he was told about the gates always being closed, perhaps it won’t be that odd to see members of the royal family roaming around the kingdom.

A man at their left hawking a collection of hunting knives with leather sheaths. Giving his wares a cursory glance, Michael slides his hand beneath his cloak and runs his fingers along the sheath he wears strapped to his waist. His knives are nice.

 _Mine is better_ , Michael thinks.

Leaving his knife alone, Michael makes the journey to the first stop of the many places on the list of lowlife hangouts. Given that there are rarely many guards in the lower market this late in the day, Michael moves briskly with the girls and keeps to the sides hoping to avoid attracting too much attention. To his surprise but satisfaction, Anna doesn’t complain; in fact she keeps up well.

They’re nearly halfway to their destination when they reach an open wagon filled with bags of dried lentils, onions, and white beans. Three men lean against the side, watching in silence as the merchant’s daughter scoops beans into burlap sacks. Michael motions the girls to sidestep them, but pulls up short as one of the men whistles softly, a low three-note tune of affection that sends chills up Elsa’s spine. Michael pulls Elsa to his side, his arm having a small spasm but doesn’t slow.

“We’ll be scraping the bottom of Arendelle’s list of possible vendors by coming here,” Michael speaks. “So just sit back, and let me do all the talking.”

“What are you going to do?” Anna asks.

“Business.”

Anna is about to ask him exaggerate more, but Elsa puts a hand on her arm to silence her. Instead, Elsa softly clears her throat before speaking. “Um, should we perhaps bring Kristoff with us? As extra backup?”

“I don’t need anyone’s help. But I do have a condition.” says Michael. She must be referring to the muscled man with blonde hair. Next to himself, that man stood out like a sore thumb, and considering that reindeer sticks close to him, he must own the animal.

“What?” asks Elsa.

“No matter what I do, or what happens, you don’t tell me to stop and you don’t tell me it’s enough. These are shitty people, and we need information, not the gossip they’ve heard around the block.”

“Wait, how do you even know anyone here?” Anna suddenly interrogates. “I thought you live far away from here.”

Michael pauses for a moment, then offers Anna an intimidating smile. “I have connections. I know people.”

This is all he says before he turns a corner and heads down a set of stairs leading into a lower district. The girls hesitate, but quickly follow as a man wearing a grey cloak passes by them and his eyes scan up and down their bodies.

“Also I have a friend here who owes me some favors. We’ve had dealings in the past.”

“You know, all of your tough guy talk isn’t winning you any favors.” Anna comments.

Michael only looks over his shoulder and oddly, smiles. He sees Anna’s face redden and she lowers her gaze.

Sewage and puddles of excrement lay beneath every window of the slums, and the cobblestone streets are cracked and misshapen after many hard winters. The buildings lean against each other, some so ramshackle that even the poorest citizens have abandoned them. on most streets, the taverns overflow with drunks and whores and everyone else who sought temporary relief from their miserable lives.

No matter what kingdom he’s in, no matter how happy, there is always an underbelly housing low lives and vagrants. For Arendelle, it’s the Pits.

He stops before the nondescript iron door in a quiet alley. Hired thugs stand watch outside; he flashes them the silver entrance fee, and they open the door for him.

“You girls wait in the hallway.” Michael orders as he enters, not even bothering to look back to see the girls’ and their faces.

The heat and reek hits him almost immediately, but he doesn’t let it crack his mask of cold calm as he descends into a warren of subterranean chambers. He swaggers down the stone steps, his hands in easy reach of his swords and daggers sheathed at the belt slung low over his hips. Most people opt to wear even more weapons, but Michael can immediately anticipate the threats the usual clientele poses, and he can look after himself just fine. Still, he keeps his hood over his head, concealing most of his face in shadows.

As he reaches the bottom of the steps, holding a hand out for the women to stay behind, the stench of unwashed bodies, stale ale, and worse things hits him full on. It’s enough to turn his stomach, and he is grateful he didn’t eat anything prior to coming.

The main chamber is strategically lit: a chandelier hangs in the center of the room, but little of it to be found along the walls for those who don’t want to be seen. He listens carefully to the sounds of the pleasure hall, sorting through the cheers and moans and bawdy singing. He peers back towards the stairs and finds the women still there, though looking more nervous without him being at their sides.

Observing the room, he finds his acquaintance sitting in the last banquette against the wall. A glass of wine before him, Noah looks exactly has he had the last time Michael had seen him: short brown hair that sticks to his forehead from the perspiration of the tight space. He wears a dirtied long-sleeve pesent blouse that puffs out at the wrist before softening into lace ruffled cuffs. About his waist is an old scarf, then brown trousers and brown hunting boots. His arm is draped across the back of the bench.

“Hello, Mike.” He says.

Michael slides onto the bench across from him, his daggers pressing against his with every movement.

“You’ve looked better,” Michael says, leaning against the hard bench and tugging back his hood. “Looks like the kingdoms aren’t treating you well.”

It’s true. Both he and Noah are in their early twenties, but Noah could pass of a man of thirty with the grey lining his hair, as well as the tints of purple under his eyes, indicating he hasn’t slept good in a while.

The tavern owner nears and starts to speak, but a single glare from Michael shuts him up.

“This is personal business.” Michael says. That is all the tavern keeper needs to hear. He goes back behind the counter and picks up a grimy rag to smear across the greasy countertop as if cleaning is suddenly a priority.

Noah looks at him up and down – a slow, deliberate examination. “Haven’t seen you in a while, my friend. You seem well, though you must be melting under all those clothes.”

“Precautions.” Michael says crossing his legs and surveying Noah just as slowly. “I wouldn’t want to wind up back in the salt mines.”

Noah’s eyes sparkle. It’s an effort to keep from reaching for a dagger and throwing it hard.

The man knew exactly what Michael was talking about.

During his time with the rebels, when Michael was sixteen and stupid, he had gotten caught by one of the king’s men and had been sentenced to a death camp without so much as a trial. The king just wanted to get rid of him as soon as possible. He had high hopes that his commander would send parties to rescue him; and he did – nearly six months later. Within those months, Michael has seen so much death and evil and corruption that it would have left most men unstable. He nearly went ballistic during his time there, going on a rampage that made the camp look like a slaughter. When his men arrived and he returned to his commander, the men had to restrain him when the commander’s reason for taking so long was ‘for Michael to learn to control his arrogance and tempter.’

And he did. And every ounce of self-consciousness and decency have been flayed from him under the iron-tipped whips of the camp. There are large, jagged scars on his back that remain from his time at the camp, since the commander had put him in time-out.

Lieutenant Johan, leader of the rebels, and like a father to Michael, demoted the man.

“Indeed.” Noah says. “I’d hate to see you go back there, too. Though I will say these past few years have been good to you. You’re even more striking than before.”

Michael shrugs his shoulders. “Traveling, fighting, and finding jobs whenever I can.”

Noah clicks his tongue. “What a shame to see Lieutenant Johan’s greatest soldier now reduced to a mere mercenary.”

Michael takes the verbal slap.

Noah is an old childhood rival, to put it in _nice_ terms. Michael can’t even use the word friend to describe him because it is far from what he is. They’re rivalry grew as they got older, as expected, but it soon turned bitter when they both fell for the same girl. They got into an argument and when she chose Michael, Noah struck him down, his weapon slicing at his ribs. Noah fled thinking Michael was dead, and even went on to bragging about it.

Once he found out that Michael was alive and in a new line of “business” he’s almost never made contact with him since. Michael usually isn’t one to hold grudges, but old pains bring back old memories. Lieutenant Johan never bothered to hunt him down, claiming Noah’s own stupidity will land him at the butchering block sooner than later.

“There is much I want to ask you – to know.”

“Really, we’ll I’ve got nothing for you.” Noah testifies.

“Bullshit you don’t. I didn’t even ask it yet.” Michael grabs Noah’s hand and thrusts the dagger through his palm. To his credit, he doesn’t scream.

“Let’s try this again.” Michael purrs.

“You’re a fool.” Noah says. “I’ve got nothing that could be of use to you. It’s useless. So angry . . .”

“Look at me!” Michael shouts. He jams a finger towards his eyes. “Right here, right here come on.”

His eyes which usually hold a deep sapphire blue, one shade that would entice compassion and kindness, are now hard and cold that it can cut as much as convince. Above one eyebrow, Noah can see a slice of hair missing, then the outline of the scar soon traces in his mind. It begins near the top middle of Michael’s forehead – covered by his bangs – and traces down through his eyebrow and stops an inch from his eye.

“Remember this?” Michael interrogates. “Tell what you know about the recent assassination attempt on the Queen and Princess – which I know you do – and I might find it in my heart to forgive you.”

“I can’t. If I tell, then they’ll kill me.” Noah’s tone is different, and suddenly he’s pleading with Michael, not even trying to toughly negotiate. Michael can’t let Noah sway him with this, as he’s done it before when they were younger.

“They’re not your concern right now, I am.”

Michael yanks the dagger out and then rams it back downward, this time penetrating his wrist. Noah screams.

Some heads of the patrons turn, but no one comes to their table. In fact, the music seems to have gotten louder, the laughter becomes heavier. Elsa and Anna huddle close to one another, Anna covering her ears, and Elsa struggling to debate whether to go back up the stairs to the safer world above.

“Who hired the assassin?” Michael asks.

“It’s a thieves group, they go by the name of Inferno.” Noah screams into grit teeth.

“Who hired them?” He interrogate, his voice like gravel.

“I don’t know. I swear, I don’t! The man I spoke to, he didn’t say.”

“Man? What man?”

Noah grunts and clenches his teeth in pain. Michael snarls and twists the dagger, causing Noah to scream again.

“ _What man_?”

“I don’t know his name!” Noah shouts. “He only said that he can only tell me what the Inferno ordered them to!”

“Why would they tell anyone their plans?”

“They’re a new assassination group, and they want to get their reputation started soon.” Noah says.

“Do you know how many members there are?”

Noah breathes through his nose, attempting to suppress the pain. “Five, including their boss. He’s the one who sends them out to complete the contracts.”

“Name?”

“Don’t know it. I think one of them said the organization is named after him. Inferno. Blaze, something along those synonyms.” Noah says.

“Where are they hiding?” Michael questions.

“I’ve been told the assassin’s live in the city, but their leader lives somewhere else. And their leader was hired by someone very wealthy to afford the entire organization’s services. And they say that they don’t stop until they’re target is dead, or they are. If you kill one man, they will send another, and another, until the jog is finished. He doesn’t leave things undone.”

“Shit.” Michael swears.

“Now, that’s all I know Michael I swear. I’ve got nothing left.” Noah assures.

“I believe you.” Michael says, but he doesn’t look at Noah, only locked in a trance as he tries to form a new plan on finding the Inferno’s leader and who hired them.

“Now, you’ll let me go right? I’ve told you everything you need.” Noah says.

Michael slowly rises, keeping the dagger in Noah’s hand. Has he rounds to stand at Noah’s side, he looks him square in the eye.

“No.”

In one smooth motion, Michael yanks his dagger out and thrusts for Noah’s chest. The dagger punches through his clothes, and pierces into Noah’s chest burying up to the hilt. Blood runs down Michael’s wrists and he watches as the Noah’s body slacks. The blood slides off his suit like water.

When done, he turns and sees the tavern keeper looking at him with wide eyes.

Michael walks up to the bar and tosses him Noah’s bag coins. “Consider that ample payment for keeping your mouth shut.” He mumbles.

He heads for the stairs, only glances at the girls over his shoulder as they’re still cowering. “I’m hoping you heard everything.”

“We did.” Elsa nearly whimpers.

“I, I don’t understand.” Anna stutters, her voice quaking, mixed with fear and anger, debating on which to feel. For once she has the sense to keep her voice quiet. “Why did you kill him? He told you everything.”

“Rule number one on the streets, princess. Never trust anyone.”

“But, that’s a little harsh.” Elsa protests.

Michael looks to her and squints his eyes. “Let me show you girls something.”

He motions them back towards the table and walks over to Noah’s body. The tavern owner wiping the table near theirs. Michael leans against the table and crosses his arms.

“Noah said that their name is called Inferno.”

“Right . . .” Elsa says and Anna nods.

“What symbolizes inferno?” Michael quizzes.

“Flames.” Elsa answers.

For a moment, Michael has to resist the urge to chuckle. The way Elsa is poised, she mimics a school girl being lectured by a teacher.

Michael takes the tip of another dagger and turns down the collar of Noah’s shirt and the girl’s mouths hang slack.

Tattooed on the side of the man’s neck, are delicately drawn flames with neat cursive writing below it. It is the most beautiful handwriting the girls have ever seen. Each loop and every curl connects cleanly to make the writing itself appear as perfect and uniform as a stamp font.

 _Forever we burn_.


	6. Chapter 6

Returning to the castle, Michael had abruptly left the girls at the door and slipped off into his rooms to bathe and change.

Their trip to the market wasn’t a complete bore seeing as how they managed to extract information from Noah. But now it’s all they have, with little to no leads. All they know is that someone outside the kingdom hired the Inferno group to assassinate Elsa and Anna. Their leader is unknown as well as the buyer.

All of this is useless with no suspects or further information of their origin.

With nothing better to do, Michael figures a round of sparring will help him sort out on what to do next. He leaves his room and makes his way down to the courtyard where the guards practice.

It’s in the back of the castle, where a sparring ring acts as the epicenter of it all. Bordering the outside are simple dummies – old sacks of flour emptied and stuffed with hey and with sloppy bull’s-eyes painted on their chests and heads. Water buckets mimic helmets, and they have wooden swords tied to their flour sack hands.

Michael chuckles as he approaches the dummies. Still, he practices with his daggers to pass the time. He had mentored under an elderly man many years ago, and from him learned many stances and techniques. He runs through them one by one. If he’s going to protect the Queen and Princess, he needs to be at his finest. His work is actually the best, according to the Captain of the Guard, who has been observing him as he works.

How many hour he practices, Michael doesn’t know, but when he finishes his body is coated with sweat and his arms throb. He collapses onto a bench and gasps in air. An unnamed guard - probably a trainee – hands him a glass of water and a towel of which he takes gratefully. While he finishes, one dummy in particular catches his attention. It’s about the size of a full grown man and weighs nearly two hundred pounds. As he watches one of the men spar with it, he overhears them use the name, Bob. Someone has strung a heavy wire between two poles and hooked Bob to it and while it’s not the same as fighting something with intelligence, it seems to keep the men on guard.

Unable to take the heat of the summer’s sun, Michael strips off his black tunic and sets it aside with the water and towel and gets up, taking his sword and walking over. After observing the dummy, Michael gives a few soft whacks before diving right into battling against it.

The dummy slides, swings, and moves with Michael’s own momentum. He can run him through with his dagger, yank the blade free, duck, and spin around to bury his weapon into the dummy’s back while he slides toward him.

During his sparing, Michael remembers on how his father would train him with something similar. He can’t count on his fingers the number of scars and bruises he got from training with his father alone. Then when it got to the other students – his father being a somewhat trainer for the young children of his old home – and of who could think and fight for themselves, it only added more. Michael half-expected to see himself in stitches like an old rag doll he’s been broken and beaten so many times.

Finally tired out, he sits on one of a few hay stacks that’s lined up to act like benches. He retrieves his towel and his water of which has been refilled, and pats his forehead dry. His moves his back muscles as he feels a stream of sweat run down his spine. He pats at the dimples of his lower spine as he feels it reach the hemline of his undergarments. As he pats his forehead, he hears his name called by a soothing voice.

“Michael.”

Looking up to find Elsa back in her elegant ice gown, Michael has to wonder if it’s as cold as it appears, leaving her immune to the summer’s heat.

“This is a surprise.” he smiles. Elsa nervously fidgets with her hands and seems to be uncomfortable in her own guard barracks despite her rank in hierarchy. Too exhausted to get up, Michael simply bows his head and wipes his neck. “Did you need something, Your Majesty?”

“Actually, yes.” She says.

* * *

Elsa has to fight her embarrassment as she tries not to look at Michael while he’s shirtless, but the whole reason she came down here was not to avoid his gaze, but to ask him about their next move in tracking the assassins. But it’s hard to do while he has his torso exposed.

Her eyes still find and gaze at the simple yet detailed designs of the tattoo he has. It curves just under his shoulder blades before it turns upwards into spirals. His muscles expand and contract as he catches his breath from sparring. The tattoo continues over his shoulders and across his chest. The ink glides under his collarbone and delicately curves just at the top of his ribcage, several swoops coil down his bicep.

He catches her eyes wandering, then realizes his shirt is still off. Fighting away a laugh, Michael drapes the towel around his neck. “What I can help you with, Your Majesty?”

Elsa still fidgets with her fingers as she rounds to Michael’s front. “I wanted to know if there was any progress made about investigating who hired the assassins.”

“I’m afraid I have little to go on, Your Majesty. I’ve yet to look through the archives and records, as we’ve only just received information _today_ ,” he says, and Elsa has to bite her tongue has his tone. “And it has proven less than useful.”

“Well, there’s got to be something else we can do.” Elsa insists.

“Your Majesty, things are just getting stared, and I understand your concern, but I just need some more time to think.” Michael insists.

Elsa takes a timid step back as she hears the heated agitation in Michael’s voice. She notices the sweat coming off his forehead and gives a small smile. “Here.”

Michael looks up and finds her wafting her hands around each other. “What are you doing?” he asks.

She smiles and still waving her hands, then opens them out towards Michael and a small cluster of snowflakes and dance across a small wisp of snow and a cold breeze. They waft towards Michael and the sigh that escapes his lips as the coldness feels good against his hot skin is, interesting.

“Wow.” He breathes. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Elsa softly giggles. “And please, from now on, call me Elsa. I think that since we’re going to be together a while that it’s only fair that we address each other as such.”

“Odd, coming from royalty.” Michael smiles. Elsa blushes as she continues to waft a cool breeze towards him. his beautifully tanned chest expands as he inhales. After another minute of cooling off, he asks. “You know how to fight with those powers?”

It catches Elsa off guard, so much her magic falters. “Um, I did . . . or I do. But I only did it once, I don’t wish to you use my powers for violence.”

“So I’m guessing that one time is when you didn’t have a choice?” Michael asks. He looks up to her and she stops her waving hands. She lowers her head and looks off to the side.

“Yes. I was being attacked and, I guess it’s fair to say that it was in self-defense.” Elsa says.

“That’s perfectly fine. And reasonable. There’s no need to feel bad about it. You didn’t hurt anyone.” Michael reasons.

“But I almost did. Back then they all feared me as a monster.” Elsa says. Michael then scoots over on the hay stack, allowing Elsa to sit. An unspoken gesture that she takes; as she sits, her train falls in gentle folds; the pleats and endless ripples in the lavish garment gave the illusion of softness. The soft, sweeping lines. “I wasn’t myself.” She admits.

“How so?”

“I was fighting to protect myself, but . . . I almost had no regards for the men I was fighting. I had one at point and the other I was ready to push off a balcony.” Elsa’s voice shake and Michael looks to her to see her holds her hands tightly to her chest.

“Did they try to kill you?” e asks. Elsa nods in answer. “Then it was self-defense.”

“No.” She shakes her head and lowers her hands, folding them neatly in her lap. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Elsa, they were tasked with killing once they found you. It was self-defense. It’s understandable.” He scoots closer to her. “You were afraid. You knew that they wouldn’t have spared your life. Instinct kicked in, and you did what you had o do.”

“Yet if I were to kill them, I would’ve been no different.” Elsa reasons.

Michael is about to retaliate, but realizes that she is right. In her own sense of reason and pacifistic nature. But to him, there is no difference as he has lost his own faith in humanity long ago, and has done far worse in his years that followed.

“I’m so scared to use my powers in fear of hurting people.”

“And what if they’re not afraid of killing you?” Michael questions. Elsa looks up to him, and blinks back the water in her eyes. What happened in the past two years, has really affected her. And despite the acceptance of her villagers, she still fears what could come should she be pushed to her limit. “I was always taught that if they don’t care for you, you don’t care for them.”

“That seems rather harsh, don’t you think?”

“The world is harsh, Elsa.” He says deeply, taking another sip of his water.

“Or maybe that’s how you see it.” Elsa disputes.

“It’s how I _know_ it is.” Michael counters. “That was proven to me long ago.”

Elsa’s eyes widen and her chest suddenly aches. He shakes his head, unreasonably aggravated again and gets up from his seat, ready to head inside.

“I’m sorry.” Elsa says as she stands. Michael turns to her with a confused expression, his eyebrows narrowed still in annoyance. “I didn’t know, and didn’t mean to bring back old pains.”

“You can’t bring them back if they never went away.” Michael softly says. He wipes his chin with the towel again despite his body being clean of sweat.

Elsa bites her lip as she watches him fiddle with his dagger as if by clinging to it, he can almost kill the memories that she can see flood his mind as his eyes go distant. Or perhaps clinging to the dagger, or any weapon for that matter makes him feel better, as he feels more protected; that he can defend himself now instead of being a helpless boy.

“Have you ever used a weapon before?” She suddenly hears him ask. Looking up, she finds him looking to her, his expression soft. Once again she feels her cheeks burn at the sight of his muscled abdomen and the graceful ink that flows along his shoulders to his back.

It takes a moment for the words to process. “Um, no. I didn’t. It’s against the etiquette of a queen.”

“What kind of Queen can’t defend herself?” Michael asks with a smirk.

Elsa’s expression hardens slightly. “I can defend myself. We just discussed this.”

“We also discussed how you’re afraid to use your powers unless your life’s in danger.” Michael reminds.

“Which is the only time I should use them.” Elsa bickers.

“But what if you need to intimidate a man with certain ideas in his head?” Michael asks. “Because I don’t know if you noticed, but you and your sister attracted the attention of _several_ men.”

Elsa shivers at the reminder of the men that whistled at her. It didn’t feel right, but it strangely did make her feel better. Not because he killed them; that scared her, and even traumatized her. She didn’t think about killing a man, and didn’t even know what it looked like until then. But it did feel better to have him protect her, demoralized at Michael’s actions.

Having them cower from him made her feel more protected, but it is dangerous to have to rely on him. She looks to Michael and is surprised to find him with a gentle smile across his lips now.

“Would you like me to teach you?” Michael says. Elsa’s cheeks unreasonably grow warm as she nervously rubs her arms. “It’ll be a great way for you to fight, or intimidate, others as well as protect yourself, _and_ not use your powers unless your situation is dire.” He persuades.

Elsa stares at him once more and debates. She then gives a small glint of a smile and holds her head high, squaring her shoulders. She folds her hands. “I believe it will be of benefit if I learn self-defense. I accept your offer.”

He gives a small smile in return. “Excellent.” He says playfully mocking her etiquette. “Though you may want to change your clothes.”

Elsa looks down at her gowns and gives Michael a small nod before going inside to change.

* * *

The sky turns a soft purple twilight as Michael waits for Elsa to come back down. Most of the guards have already left the courtyard out of shift change or by simple courtesy of leaving Michael and Elsa. Once the queen returns, the courtyard is empty and she is wearing a simple white tunic, and grey trousers and brown leather boots.

Michael raises his eyebrows and uplifts the one corner of his mouth. “Not bad.” He smiles fully when he sees her cheeks redden. “Come on, we’ll start you off with combat techniques.”

“Really? I just assumed we would get into using weapons.” Elsa says as she follows him to the sparring ring.

“You’ll get there. But this is just in case you find yourself unarmed and in danger.” He explains. He sets aside his daggers and swords. “So let me just say that it’s an honor to be your teacher, Queen Elsa.” Michael starts. “But be advised, I’ll throw a lot at you. Everything I’ve learned from my own mentors,” he flinches as he pulls up the sleeves of his tunic. “And my own bruises.”

He rubs his arm and Elsa can see a purple and black bruise. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t ask. Michael tosses aside his rolls his wrists.

“Now, combat is about controlling conflict, putting the battle on your terms. You should always be acting, never reacting. Now step forward.”

Elsa steps forward, flexing his fingers.

“How much training have you had?” Michael asks, taking a fighting stance.

“None.” Elsa answers.

Michael raises an eyebrow in question, a sly smile on his lips. In an instant, he rushes a fisted hand towards Elsa, who blocks with her forearm, but Michael spins down and sweeps a leg, kicking her legs out from underneath her. She would’ve landed on the ground if not for him catching her in one arm, holding her hand with the other.

“Whoa.” She says. Her cheeks near red, and Michael smiling with no small amount of male satisfaction.

“Good block.” Michael says as he gives her a smile. “That’s good instincts. But you need to be quicker. Try to anticipate your enemy’s next move while you’re fighting.”

Elsa grips Michael’s shoulder as he lifts her to her feet.

“What exactly do they teach you at the castle?” Michael asks.

“I told you before, we didn’t learn anything. It wasn’t the way our parents were raised.”

“Princess, or not learning how to fight is an essential.” Michael says with a gentle smile.

“Technically, I’m a queen.” Elsa smiles back.

Michael snickers. “There’s hope for you yet.”

Without warning, he grips her wrist and holds up her hand. She flinches, and instinctively tries to pull, but he holds firm.

“People – men – usually don’t hunt for women who look like they’ll put up a fight. they’ll pick you because you look off-guard or vulnerable. They’ll want to move you to another place where they won’t have to worry about being interrupted.”

Elsa’s eyes widen, her face paler than normal. Helpless. What is it like to be helpless to defend yourself? A shudder goes through him.

“Do _not_ let them move you.” He continues, reciting from the lessons that Lieutenant Johan had once taught him. He learned self-defense before he ever learned to attack anyone, and to first fight without weapons, too.

“Fight back enough to convince them you’re not worth it. And make as much noise as possible. In a kingdom like yours, I’m sure someone will come help you. But you should still start screaming your head off about a fire – not rape, not theft, not something that cowards would rather hide from. And if shouting doesn’t help, then there are a few tricks to outsmart them.

“Some might make them drop like a stone, some might get them down temporarily, but as soon as they let go of you, your _biggest_ priority is getting the hell away. You understand? They let you go, you _run_.”

Elsa nods, still wide-eyed. She remains that way as Michael takes the hand he’d lifted and walks her through the eye-gouge, showing her how to shove her thumbs into the corners of someone’s eyes, crook her thumbs back behind the eyeballs, and – well he can’t actually finish that part, since he likes his own eyeballs very much.

He then shows her the ear clap, then how to pinch the inside of a man’s upper thigh hard enough to make him scream, where to stomp on the most delicate part of the foot, what soft spots are the best to hit with her elbow (Elsa actually hit him so hard in the throat that he gags for a good minute). And then tells her to go for the groin – always try to strike for the groin.

And when the sun is setting, when Michael is convinced that Elsa might stand a chance against an assailant, he shows the queen all of the available weapons he has. The different styles of bows and what they’re good for, how to steal another man’s weapon and how to loot another person for salvage. Elsa picks up well; she is a fast learner, just like Michael’s tutor said for him.

“What’s that? A walking stick?” Elsa asks. Michael looks to the side and finds one of the weapons he had brought with him.

“Of a sort.” Michael then presses on the thinner end of the stick and small blade pops out.

It’s is an invention made by his father. It was a test at first, and something his father didn’t really think was worth finishing; just a small project he didn’t think had much potential.

But Michael saw something; something . . . deceiving. It looks like a solid wooden walking staff, but one end is weighted enough to crush a man’s skull, and the other conceals a double-edged blade. Michael remembers his first time training with it. It was frustrating, and since his father didn’t know about him taking it until later he had to teach himself. His father only found out when Michael had used it against a gang of thugs harassing a young woman.

“Give it a try.” He says, chuckling as Elsa nearly drops it when he hands it to her.

It takes hours of work before she can balance the heavier end, swing it like a mallet, and knock Bob-the-dummy flying. Even so, she’s still off balance enough that if she has to deal with two foes at once, she’ll find herself skewered at the end of a sword before she can regain footing, and she’s yet to manage springing the blade after the initial hit without getting knocked to the ground.

After her fourth disastrous attempt, she lets fly with the most creative swear word he has ever heard any member of a royal family say, and tosses the staff onto the grass beside her.

“I can’t master it.” Elsa says. “Can’t swing it around in time to deliver the crucial blow that could mean the difference between life and death.”

She lies back on the grass, squinting against the glare of the afternoon sun, and sighs in agitation. The bangs of her braid stick to her forehead, and when she fans herself, small snowflakes waft over her pale face. He’s never seen someone so pale, as though she has rarely seen the sun.

Michael crosses the space between them and sits down next to her. “I had the similar issue. It’s not easy, but remember the kingdom wasn’t built in a day.”

“It’s like having two weapons at once.” Elsa says as she wipes her forehead.

“Exactly. But instead of looking at it like a bad thing, use it to your advantage.” Michael nudges her. “Now come on. You can do this. You’re doing great.”

Elsa sighs and pushes herself to her feet. She wafts herself with her ice wisps once more before grasping the staff. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath.

She listens intently to him, opening her eyes as he moves to stand behind her. Loosening her stiff muscles, Elsa widens her stance, and crouches.

“Drop your shoulders a bit. You’ll need the room to move.” Michael encloses his hands around Elsa’s as her hands start to slide together. “No, you don’t. Nice wide grip. Keep it loose. Gives you balance control.”

Elsa takes a shaky breath and drops her shoulders, and widens her grip.

“Alright, now, you’ve got a weapon on either end. You’ll only have seconds to decide which one to use.” Michael lets go of Elsa’s hands, and places his callused palms on her soft shoulders. “Big man, sprinting towards you.”

“Weapon?”

“Doesn’t matter, Elsa. He’s twice your size and his speed will bring him in range within seconds. Which end do you use?” Michael’s fingers curl around Elsa’s shoulders as if willing her to know the answers.

“Blade. No time to swing the weighted end.” Elsa slides the blade free and crouches.

“Very good.” He releases Elsa shoulders and walks around to stand near Bob. “Now, if you must engage an opponent who is bigger, stronger, and faster, what do you do?”

“Take him down. Make it so he can’t get up and come after me.” Elsa answers.

“Yes. Now you’ll get one chance to surprise him. Make full use of that advantage. Where do you make the first cut?”

“Let him come in, then spin and slash the inner thigh, as I turn. Cut open the artery.” Elsa draws in a deep breath, and then spins and slashes, planting her left foot to keep her balance for the next move.

“Good! He’s bleeding, but the pain hasn’t hit yet, and he doesn’t know how badly he’s hurt. He’ll try to come after you. How do you stop him?” Michael encourages as he walks around her, observing her.

“Cut the tendon in the ankle as he passes me, then get out of range.” Elsa spins and slashes again, Michael watches as the staff is beginning to look like an extension of her arm as she thrusts, turn, and slices in tune with his voice.

He is soon clapping, pride written on his face. “You did it. I knew you could.”

Once the clock chimes seven in the evening, they sit on the ground, under the light of the architecture groins, the housemaid having brought down a small snack of cinnamon rolls, now cast off to the side. Michael had pulled out his knife collection and is showing Elsa the blades of each knife and the purposes they had. He pulls out one of his favorites, a clip-point blade. The blade was concavely formed to make the tip thinner and sharper. The sharp tip is useful as a pick, or for cutting in tight places.

“So the back edge of the clip may have a false edge that could be sharpened to make a second edge. If it is sharpened, in increases the knife’s effectiveness in piercing.” Michael explains. He flips the blade over on both sides and Elsa looks to it with intrigued eyes.

“What about that one?” She points to a knife that’s blade shrinks down to an exquisite tip.

“This one is known as a needle-point blade.” Michael says as he exchanges the knives. “It’s symmetrical, highly tapered, twin-edged blade is often seen in fighting blades. Its long narrow point offers good penetration but is liable to breakage if abused. Although most people call it a knife, this design may also be referred to as a stiletto or dagger due to its use as a stabbing weapon.”

After a few more samples, Michael lets Elsa pick her favorite, and shows her some techniques on how to flip the weapon from blade to hilt and how to block, swipe and pierce.

“Alright, so we’ll count a solid touch from the blade as a strike.” Michael says.

Elsa groans as she stands. “We’ve been training for hours. At this point, I’m not going to be able to move tomorrow.

Michael grins. “You wanted me to teach you, queen. So, I am. I’m going easy on you, compared to the training I had to do.”

“How long did you train for?”

For a moment, his expression is somber. “Long enough that day and night bled into one.”

Elsa widens her stance and rolls on the balls of her feet like Michael showed her. He walks towards her, the resolve he feels to protect her blazing into something hard and bright in the face of his courage. His blade whistles through the air, and Elsa leaps back to dodge the blow. Spinning, Michael taps her with the hilt before she can raise his arms in defense.

“My point.” Michael says, not bothering to hide his smirk.

Elsa circles him. “Lucky shot.”

Michael lashes out again, but Elsa’s ready. Blocking him with the middle of the blade, she whirls beneath his outstretched arms and slams the hilt into his thigh.

Pride keeps him from swearing at the pain. Elsa then decides to be sneaky and extends out her hand, creating a sheet of ice below Michael’s feet, then pushes him to lose his balance. He turns and rolls forward as he lands, coming up with his knife ready. The controlled grace of his movements would make any of his mentors proud.

“You’re fast. That’s good.” Michael says, advancing towards Elsa.

“I learn from the best.”

They lock, parry, and break apart. “Aw, you’re sweet. You’re going to make me cry.” Michael teases.

Elsa is strong and quick and cunning, but he knows she doesn’t know how to anticipate the unexpected. He steps back, inviting an attack, and Elsa charges forward, swinging the knife like a butcher slicing the head from a sheep.

Michael waits until the last second, then drop to the ground and rams Elsa with his shoulder. Elsa’s forward momentum carries her over the top of him and she lands face-first in the grass.

Elsa spits dry blades of grass from her mouth, and swears, but a new respect for Michael in her eyes.

Michael laughs like he can’t help it. Elsa is staring at him, bewildered. And for a moment, neither can he. He is actually smiling, _laughing_ , teeth and all. Elsa stares at him, a tiny smile flitting across her lips and the affection makes him suddenly feel like the richest man in the world. When was the last time he truly laughed?

“You need to be ready for an opponent who does the unexpected.” Michael offers Elsa a hand up. She takes it, closing her fingers over Michael’s without breaking their gaze. “Nice work.”

She smiles and the moonlight shines a silvery path through her platinum blonde hair, and his eyes suddenly slide over her pale skin and come to rest on her lips. Warmth unreasonably pools in his stomach and spreads lazily through him as he pulls her to her feet and closer to him.

 _What is this_? Michael thinks to himself. The feeling is similar to how he would feel for his mother and father. He hasn’t really felt anything since his parents’ death.

The sharp edges of his parents’ death flashes through his mind, and it’s so sharp he suddenly feels a small throbbing behind his temple, and something inside him shatters like a harsh clang of plates. The silence inside him consumes it, swallows the loss and grief, then suffocating it into the icy silence within him.

As Elsa giggles while he pulls her to her feet, Michael can feel the empty space within him filling up and making him into more than he ever could be on his own. But he can’t let her see the man he really was, he can’t bear to let her see the hollow, silent man he has become.

He is just here to protect her. Ensure her safety until they execute the assassin and the one who hired him.

Elsa takes an unaware step forward, her face upturned. Michael leans in.

Behind them, someone clears their throat.


	7. Chapter 7

Michael drops his hand and whips around, his dagger ready. Anna stands on the last stair with the sternest expression she can manage aimed straight at him.

Elsa steps back and bends to pick up her weapon. Michael doesn’t divert his gaze from Anna, even adds to the humor by adding a sly smile. Anna raises her brows.

“Well, nice to see you two are getting along well.” Michael just smiles and doesn’t say anything. “Are you just going to stand there pretending I didn’t just see –”

“We were sparring, Anna.” Elsa hefts the staff to prove it.

“That’s not what we call it, Elsa.” Anna says, and motions for us to come inside the castle with her. “You guys must be starving, dinner is ready.”

“I shall take to my quarters, then.” Michael says as he gathers his things.

“Michael,” Elsa chimes, and for a moment he’s taken aback. Was that the first time she said his name? “You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like.”

“I appreciate it, Elsa, but I’m in dire need of a bath. As well as a nap. Perhaps I shall stop by tomorrow afternoon.”

The disappointment in the queen’s face almost makes his chest ache. But after training for so long, Michal is almost tempted just to skip the shower and throw himself straight into bed. With a bow of his head, he leaves the two women and walks back to his rooms.

He’s surprises himself when his legs nearly collapse once he steps after he draws himself a bath. After a long while, he emerges ruffling his hair with a towel. He only remembers changing into some night clothes before slipping between the sheets.

The next morning, he wakes and rolls over to face the window next to his bed. A clock in the entryway sings, and he counts the chimes. Noon. It’s the latest he’s slept in. The roofs of Arendelle gleam like emeralds in the sun. As he stretches, he nearly moans from the way his muscles ache. He doesn’t mind, though; it only means progress. Besides, he did train with Elsa for hours. He stays in bed for another hour before finally managing to make himself snake out of bed and walk into the dining room for breakfast.

The smell of the banquet hits him before the chair did, it bumps into his hip and he bites back the curse. He plops down and pulls forward a bowl of porridge. After taking a spoonful, he cringes and dumps a mound of sugar in it.

While he’s in the middle of munching an apple, there’s a knock on his doors. When they open, he looks up to find Elsa walking in, this time wearing an emerald green dress with the bodice patterned to resemble leaves, and light green translucent short sleeves both decorated with pink flowers. Her floral patterned cape drapes behind her as she approaches the table, her pale leg flashing every step due to the high slit. Her eyes flick to the sugar still dissolving in his porridge. Michael only offers a smug smile before taking another bite of his apple.

“Good morning to you too.” He chuckles.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Elsa smiles.

“Not at all. To what do I owe the honor of having the Queen of Arendelle visiting me in my abode?”

Color flushes into Elsa’s cheeks as she takes a seat next to him. “Well, considering there isn’t much to go on with this new threat to the kingdom, I thought I’d do you the honor of visiting our library.”

Michael nearly chokes on his apple bite. “Your lib –” His eyes widen. “Are you serious?”

Elsa nods, and Michael’s sudden jubilance is quelled by the slight purple under her eyes. She must not have gotten much sleep since yesterday. “I was hoping to take you after your breakfast.”

Michael couldn’t eat fast enough.

This might be the very first time he’s walked the halls of the castle without his mask and cloak on.

The library doesn’t call for an attire of black. This is a time for him to feel like Michael, not Night Arrow.

Books were and still are his only escape from his blood-coated reality. It was also one of the few silver linings of being a rebel. When he traveled to many kingdoms here and there, he would always visit the kingdom’s library. Some were as small as an avenue’s shop, others were as grand as a king’s ballroom. But they were never a disappointment.

No library is ever a disappointment to him.

Elsa walks beside him, keeping her poise and grace while he fidgets with his cuff of his sleeve, the anticipation nearly sending him bolting down the hall like a schoolchild. He wears a deep blue tunic embroidered with gold along the cuffs and the neckline. The color really brings out his eyes, and he didn’t really care about the pants. But his boots click as they shift from carpet to wooden floors.

“You like to read?” The queen asks.

Michael raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”

“I’ve never seen you so eager.” Elsa chuckles beside him.

“You’ve never really seen me any other way.”

“Except angry.” She nudges him with her elbow. Michael chuckles, but his chest slightly hurts. “Over there, third door to the left.”

He looks at the twenty-foot oak doors, eyes widening at the thick white and gold columns that flank either side of the wall. “There?”

“That’s the library.” Elsa says. The two words are like a shot of lightning.

Forgetting about his composure, Michael jogs ahead to approach the doors. He looks left and right for any guards, though he finds none. Still, reluctantly he pushes hard against the worn oak, feeling his muscles flex from the weight.

No room in this castle, it would seem, will be left to the shadows, as the sunlight fills this enormous chamber as he steps inside. Candelabras come into view, along with wooden floors with a mosaic of the crest at its epicenter, large mahogany tables with red velvet chairs, a slumbering fire, mezzanines, bridges, ladders, railings, and then books – books and books and books.

Michael has entered a city made entirely of leather and paper. He puts a hand against his heart. Assassins be damned. “I’ve never seen – how many volumes are there?”

Elsa shrugs with an impish smile on her rosy lips. “Last anyone bothered to count, it was a million. But that was two hundred years ago. I’d say maybe more than that.”

“Over a million? A million books?” Michael heart leaps and dances, and he cracks a smile. “I’d die before I even got through half of that!”

He moves farther into the library, his boots clicking loudly across the floor. He nears a shelf and looks at the titles. He recognizes none of them.

Grinning, he whirls and moves through the main floor, running a hand across the dusty books. “I didn’t know assassins like to read.” Elsa calls.

If Michael was to die now it would be in complete bliss. “I’m not an assassin, _Your Majesty_. I’m a justified mercenary.”

“Garther gave us some reports on you and your, past.” Elsa says as she follows behind Michael, her heels sounding softly against the floor. “It said you were from some kingdom close to the ocean. It was said to be similar to Arendelle.”

Michael pauses his browsing and glances over his shoulder at the queen. Elsa stops short and she swallows, her fingers fiddling with the plaits of her braid. “I don’t remember. Or perhaps maybe I don’t _want_ to remember. I don’t care.”

Elsa’s eyes widen.

“It was – is – a kingdom settled at the foothills of some mountains, and then a forest after that.” Michael sadly smiles.

That is a severe understatement.

The kingdom’s name has been reformed so many times that is he really doesn’t remember its true name. All he can remember is a land of pine and snow, of sun-bleached cliffs and white-capped seas, a land of rolling green hills, and where light was swallowed by a blanket of stars overhead. 

Michael used to think that it was impenetrable with the forest and the mountains bordering its territories, but the forest was the very thing that became their downfall. Along its coast is the sea, which gave it a taste of all terranes; water and land.

Not much is known or even remembered about the kingdom after the king ordered a heavy slaughtering of its people due to the rebellion. An entire population of millions, gone.

His heart sinks at the thought of the slaughter of nearly an entire culture. All for what?

Elsa fiddles with the tip of her braid as she approaches. “Whispers drifted about a mysterious soldier who had burned brighter than the sun in the times of darkness. He had led his men to the front gates of the castle and emerged with king’s head in hand . . . so the stories say. The documents stated you were a rebel as well, did you ever get the chance to meet this soldier?”

Michael stiffens, suddenly feeling the world shift beneath his feet. He curls and uncurls his hands, swallowing against his tight throat. “No. He was merely like a candle in the wind. He was there one day, gone the next.”

Elsa is quiet for a moment, then her footsteps pick up as she says, “Did you ever visit that kingdom’s library? They say it’s twice the size of this – and that it used to hold all the knowledge of the world. It used to be a land of knowledge.”

He turns from the stack he was currently studying. “Yes.” He admits. “When I was very young. Though they wouldn’t let me explore – the Master Scholars were too afraid I’d ruin some valuable manuscript.” Michael hasn’t returned to the library since – and wonders how many of those invaluable works have been put away from the expansion of the shelves. Though part of him shriveled at the realization that the Master Scholars had smuggled many of the priceless book to their homes for safekeeping – that when the royal family had been slaughtered and the rebels invaded, those stuffy old men had had stashed into hiding two thousand years’ worth of ideas and learning.

A dead, empty space opens inside Michael. Needing to change the subject, he asks. “Why are none of your folk here?”

“Guards are of no use in a library.” Oh, how wrong she was! Libraries are full of ideas – perhaps the most dangerous and powerful of all weapons.

Michael says, “I was referring to your noble companions.”

The queen leans against a table, a hand still on her thigh. At least one of them remembers they are alone together in the library. “Reading is a bit out of fashion, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, well – more for me, then.”

“Read? These belong the royal family.” Elsa chuckles.

“It’s a library, isn’t it?”

“It’s _our_ property, and you aren’t of noble blood. You need permission from either one of us.” Elsa reminds.

“I highly doubt any of you would notice the loss of a few books.”

Elsa quirks a brow at him, a long smile on her lips. “Well, I did bring you here to do some research, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t be allowed to indulge in some of our reads.” She giggles.

Michael feels like seizing the queen and dancing.

“I have to get to a meeting in a few minutes, but I think we should be able pull a few history tomes before we go.”

“Maybe something more.” Michael grins.

With the help of the head librarian, they managed to pull some tomes as Elsa requested, as well as a few genealogy books. But as he tries to convince Elsa to let him take a couple of novels back to his rooms, she only laughs before having to drag him out of the library.

Elsa leaves him at his rooms, sparing him a happy farewell. As she walked away, he couldn’t help but stare at the way her hips move . . . especially in that fitting gown.

After a solitary lunch, over which Michael contemplates his research plans and how he might make some makeshift weapons just in case of surprise visitors, he paces through his rooms.

He smiles as he steps in front of the window to study the garden. Its far border ended in the trees of a game park. He knows enough about the castle to know that if he goes through the game park, he’d reach a stone wall and canals beyond.

Michael opens and closes the doors of his armoire, dresser, and vanity. Of course, there are plenty of items that can be used as weapons, even the fire poker.

Michael reenters the bedroom, yawning, and stands on the edge of the mattress to tuck some daggers into one of the folds of the partial canopy over the bed. When he conceals it, he glances around the room again. The canopy provides plenty of hiding places. What else can he take without them noticing? He manages to pry up a couple of floorboards and slide a couple of short swords beneath – swords that he is certain the Weapon’s Master won’t notice is missing.

He listens at the bedroom door for any signs of activity. When he is certain no one is in his chambers, he enters the foyer and strode through the gaming room. He beholds the billiards cues along the far wall, and the heavy colored balls stacked on the green felt table, and grins.

It will be easy enough to get a stick if he needs to escape, or to use the dense balls to knock a man unconscious.

The only thought that keeps him from the pinnacle of boredom is the thought of the library and if any of the other members of the castle were allowed to have access to the books, if they wanted?

Michael slumps into his chair. He is tired, but the sun has barely set. Instead of reading, he could perhaps use the pianoforte, but . . . well, until has been a while, and he isn’t sure he could endure the sound of his own stumbling, clumsy playing. He traces a finger over a splotch of fuchsia silk on his uniform. All those books, with no one to read them.

He's about to gather some daggers and practice some more until there’s a knock at his doors.

He opens it to find a servant woman carrying a stack of books piled in her arms. Baffled at first, Michael laughs as he swipes the note that crowns the column of leather. He opens it and finds smooth and feminine handwriting on the page.

_My Dearest Michael,_

_Enclosed are seven books from my personal library that I have recently read and enjoyed immensely. You are, of course, free to read as many of the books in the castle library as you wish, but I command you to read these first so that we might discuss them. I promise they are not dull, for I am not one inclined to sit through pages of nonsense and bloated speech, though perhaps you enjoy works and authors who think very highly of themselves. _

_Most affectionately,_

_Queen Elsa_

Michael thanks the woman for her trouble and thankfully she closes the door for him. He walks into his bedroom, shutting the door with a backward kick, and drops onto the bed, scattering the books across the green surface.

He hurries over to his desk and scrambles to gather a paper and a pen. He dips the pen into the inkwell. With his neatest hand writing and gathering the most advanced vocabulary he can muster, Michael begins to write.

_Your Highness,_

_It is with uncontained jubilant heart that I thank you for your kind contribution to me. Since I am deprived of company and entertainment, this act of kindness is much appreciated. I promise that I will give each novel an equal amount of attention and value they deserve. I am honored that someone of your importance could deign to bestow upon a lowly, miserable wretch such as I._

_Yours most truly,_

_Michael_

Beaming at his note, he hands it to the nicest-looking servant he can find, with specific instructions to give it to the queen immediately.

Choosing the book that seems to most interesting, Michael flips onto his back and begins to read.

After about two hours, and already through two novels, it’s the numbness of his joints that make Michael close the third book and set it aside on his bedside table.

Rubbing his dry eyes, Michael cleans up the books and sets the rest of them on the low table in the living area. He then plops back onto the bed, the mattress is so soft that he sinks down a few inches, and it is wide enough for three people to sleep without noticing each other. Curling on his side, Michael’s eyes grow heavier and heavier.

He sleeps for an hour, until a servant announces the arrival of the tailor, to outfit him with proper court attire. For what occasion, no one will say. The clock reads four in the evening.

He simply _cannot_ be seen walking around with such commoner clothes, according to the tailor. Though he’d love to see the fat woman say that to the queen and princess who let the villagers into their courtyards on a regular basis.

Another hour is spent being measured and pinned, and sitting though a presentation of different fabrics and colors. He hates most of them. A few catch his attention, but when he tries to recommend specific styles that suit him, he receives only the wave of a hand and a curl of the lip. He considers jabbing one of the tailor’s pearl-headed pins through her eye.

Michael sighs, but is contempt as he strips off his shirt. He’s aware of female servants’ eyes leering all over his torso. One folds her lips in, biting the bottom one as she takes in the image of his muscled back.

The striking sapphire blue of his eyes are a heavy contrast to his charcoal hair catches the attention of most, hair that maintains a thin glimmer of its glory. His skin maintained its rich tan from all those summers spent training in the sun, his chest having a tattoo weaving over his chest and delicately curling over his shoulder blades. In short, Michael is blessed with a handful of attractive features that compensate for the majority of average ones.

Michael is bathed, feeling almost as dirty as he had in Corona, and is grateful for the gentle servants who attend him. Many of his wounds have scabbed or remained as thin as white lines, though his back retains most of its damage. After nearly two hours of pampering – trimming his hair, shaping his nails, and scraping away the callousness on his feet and hands – Michael actually grins at the mirror in the dressing room.

Only in the capital could servants have done such fine work. He looks spectacular. Utterly and completely spectacular. Wearing a doublet of emerald green, an embroidery of the Arendelle crest sits right over his heart, a mud-brown cloak falls around him.

“Handsome.” says an older, female voice, and Michael pivots, the yards of cumbersome fabric twisting with him. “Or well, even more handsome.”

Elsa, beautiful and lean in a gown of cobalt and peach, stands in the doorway with her hands elegantly folded in front of her.

“ _This,_ is why I prefer tunics and pants.” Michael says, spreading his arms wide, only to be stopped by the tightness of the fitted sleeves.

“You _are_ wearing pants.” Elsa giggles.

“I mean pants that fit.” Michael says flatly.

Elsa smiles as she steps towards him, the servants easing away from Michael as she approaches.

“What do other people think about all my guards?” Michael asks.

Elsa approaches, and smiles as she adjusts the folds of the rebel’s cape, fluffing them in the right places. “Oh, no one is that suspicious of your stay. Or people just think you’re a court friend of ours.”

“Joyous.” Michael rolls his eyes.

“Don’t look so tortured.”

“I can’t make any other face with this attire on. Why such drastic changes anyway? Am I to attend a court meeting?”

“Not today.” Elsa sighs a she stands next to Michael, looking at themselves in the mirror. “I have something else in mind.”

The rebel’s eyes widen and eyebrow raise. He deviously grins, “If that’s the case then why go to all the trouble dressing me?” He winks.

Elsa’s cheeks flush red and she smacks his shoulder. “Not that.” She then sighs, stands straight, and squares her shoulders. “If you’ll just follow me.”

He chuckles gives a smile as she gestures out of the bedroom. Michael walks down the hall, his cape flowing behind in a russet wave. “Where are we going?”

“To the stables.” Elsa answers, keeping in credit strive with Michael’s pace.

“Is this anther part of the divided tour? What else is there to see?” Michael asks. “I’ve already seen all three gardens, the ballrooms, the historical rooms, and the nicest views offered from the castle. There’s nothing else to see.”

“Just follow me.” Elsa snorts.

Michael obeys and follows instep with the Queen as she leads them outside into the courtyard and towards the royal stables. Young women flock to them, waving. He can’t help but notice the sharp stares from the same women when they behold the Queen in his retinue. He knows how he appears, strolling aside the Queen like some prize gentleman being brought to the castle. The young women look up from their fans to bat their eyelashes at him.

Work has already begun for the day, stables boys already brushing gorgeous stallions of ebony, auburn and pearl white. Their tails swish back and forth and their noses huff with flaring nostrils.

Yapping fills the air, and three black dogs sprint from the center of the caravan to greet them. They are each sleek as arrows – undoubtedly from the Queen’s kennels. Michael kneels on one knee, and he cups their heads and strokes their smooth hair. They lick his fingers and face, their tails slashing the ground like whips.

A pair of rose pink slippers stop before him, and the dogs immediately clam and sit. Michael lifts his gaze to find the turquoise eyes of the Snow Queen studying his face. She smiles slightly. “How unusual for them to notice you.” She says, scratching one of the dogs behind the ears. “Did you give them food?”

Michael shakes his head as a guard steps behind him, so close that his knees graze the holds of Michael’s cape. It will take all of two movements to disarm him. He made sure to note how there are triple the amount of guards here than there are needed for the stables.

“Are you fond of dogs?” Asks the Queen. Michael nods. Why is it already so hot? “What about horses? Do you often ride?”

“Sometimes. It was one of the necessities while in training.” He admits.

“Good.” She smiles. She is achingly beautiful, and can’t have been older than twenty.

_Queens are not supposed to be this beautiful. They’re sniveling, stupid, repulsive creatures! This one . . . this . . . How unfair for her to be royal and beautiful._

They bring him a piebald mare to ride with a coat like thunderclouds. Michael runs his hand along the horse’s soft neck and pats its shoulder.

Elsa approaches and smiles as she joins in the petting. “He will be yours for the ride.” Michael looks to her with surprised eyes, but his brows narrowed. “You’d rather stay cooped up in the castle?” she asks, sounding faintly amused.

“Perhaps if I were told what this is all about, I wouldn’t feel so inclined to resist.”

“I just want to go for a ride, and Anna is asleep.”

“Already?”

“She sleeps whenever she finds the time.”

Michael shrugs. “Okay, I can understand that.”

He mounts, admittedly excited to try a horse of this size. The sky comes closer, and it stretches forever above him, away and away to distant lands he’s never heard of. Michael grips the saddle horn and breathes in deeply.

As the evening wears on, the sky becomes a crisp blue with hardly a cloud. Michael and Elsa seem to make descent conversation, Elsa kind enough not to try and ask questions relating to Michael’s past, though he knows this trip was her way of trying to uncover the mystery of his blood-covered past.

She’d probably have him in chains before he even finished. Taking the forest road, they swiftly pass from the foothills and into the fairer, wider countryside. The guards form a protective circle around them, watching all sides, and watching him.

Michael tears his focus from the queen to study the trees. The forest has gone silent. The ebony hounds’ ears are erect, though they don’t seem to be bothered by the stillness. Even the guards quieted. Michael’s heart skips a beat. The forest is different here.

The leaves dangle like jewels – tiny droplets of ruby, pearl, topaz, amethyst, emerald, and garnet; and a carpet of such riches coat the forest floor around them. Despite the ravages of conquest, this part of forest remains untouched. It still echoes with the remnants of the power that it had once given these trees such unnatural beauty.

“Was there magic in your kingdom?” Elsa suddenly asks, keeping her stare ahead. Michael looks to her and raises a brow, but she doesn’t turn her head, nor does she repeat the question. Yet within her hand he can see her twining a thin thread of blue between her fingers.

Michael shrugs. “Yes, there was. It was a welcome art.”

Elsa finally looks to him, something like sadness etched on her delicate features. “What kind of magic was there?”

He ponders for a moment. “All kinds, I suppose. We had the standard healers, successful farmers, those who could control water or fire, shape-shifters – though those were the rarest – and those who delved in darker acts like necromancy.”

Elsa’s eyes leave his and look back towards the forest. “Did you have any abilities?”

Michael grows rigid. “I was too young and, focused, on the rebellion to know, or care. My parents never showed any signs, but I do know that some talented healers had married into our family, though a majority of their children didn’t have the power.”

During the years that the rebels were growing in numbers, the king decided to go on a genocidal campaign to hunt down and slaughter all magic wielders, to keep the rebels from growing stronger; to keep them from becoming an actual threat.

Michael can still smell the fires that had raged throughout his twelfth and thirteenth years – the smoke of burning books chock-full of ancient, irreplaceable knowledge, the screams of gifted seers and healers as they’d been consumed by the flames, the tents and sacred places shattered and desecrated and erased from history. Many of the magic-users who hadn’t been burned wound up prisoners in death camps – and most didn’t survive long there.

It has been a while since Michael had contemplated the gifts he’d lost, though the memory of his abilities haunts his dreams. Despite the carnage, perhaps it was good that magic had vanished. It is far too dangerous for any sane person to wield; his gifts might have destroyed him by this point.

“Do you know where it comes from?”

Michael shrugs. “I’m not the most educated on the subject, but I do know that it has to come from _someone_. It takes a wielder to pass on their gift. It has to come from the mother or father.” Elsa gives a tight nod of her head “Do you know where your abilities come from?” Michael asks.

He sees Elsa’s hands grip the reins of the horse tighter. “No, I don’t. Like you, my parents didn’t seem to have any powers, but once they had come about, they didn’t ask questions. And we accepted it for a while, though Anna and I would get into some trouble with it. They didn’t really know how to handle it.”

“So they taught you to be afraid.”

Elsa whirls her head to face him, her braid flying. “No!” She first exclaims. “Well, yes, but only because they wanted to protect me. They thought I would be safer. They – they weren’t bad people, Michael.”

“I never said they were. They just didn’t know how to understand.” He says softly.

The queen’s silence feels palpable. Garther had mentioned how Elsa’s parents had feared her power, deep down, which was why they had closed the gates of the castle. Just from reading Elsa and Anna’s personalities, their parents did love them very much, they just didn’t know how to handle her power. Even so, they did their best.

Elsa loses a breath. “What about you, then?”

Michael wraps the leather reins around his hands. “I didn’t think you cared to know anything about me.”

“Well what do you think all of this was?” She says with a slight chuckle, gesturing to the beautiful horses and the wide-open space. Michael shrugs. “You are here to protect my sister and I, not mention you are also a guest in our castle. It’s out of good hospitality that I act as a good hostess.”

This manages to make Michael chuckle, his lips twitching into a smile as he watches the sky melt into a smear of tangerine.

“But what do your parents think about their son being a part of a rebellion?” Elsa asks.

Just that fast, the world slips, swallowed up by the abyss that now lives within him. He can hear the anguished wailing of the grief-stricken boy. He clamps down on it and lets the silence suffocate it.

“My parents are dead.” He says. “They died when I was, fairly young.”

Silence falls, and he looks to find the queen’s eyes gleaming. He’s about to snap at her should she dare offer any pity, but she surprises him when she says, “You too?”

Michael swallows as he contemplates that he could be seeing such a vulnerable part of the queen. He’s more baffled she’s willing to expose herself like this. But her pain is so recognizable that his own chest starts to ache. He looks away and clears his throat. He blinks back the sting in his eyes.

“How old were you?” Elsa asks, her voice quaking.

“Thirteen.”

More silence, and then –

“Me too.”

They travel for the remainder of the day, and the rebel sits in silence as he watches the forest pass, the tightness in his chest not easing until they have left that shimmering glen far behind. His body aches by the time they make it back to the castle.

The Snow Queen bids him a stiff farewell, and he hands both of their horses to the stable works. He doesn’t bother to speak at the guards posted outside his bedroom, sparring them a nod of acknowledgement, before he retreats into his bedroom, locking the door behind him.

Sighing, Michael calls to his servants to draw his bath. A couple hours of reading by the fire is in order.

By nighttime, he simply remembers lying his head back onto the pillow and a pressure of a book on his chest.

He doesn’t dream that night.


	8. Chapter 8

Squat behind a chimney of the lower market, Michael peers his head around the corner to view a local pub of the slums. Even after confronting Noah at the tavern, he still has little to no leagues on who this Inferno Assassin group is or their leader; let alone who had hired them. So after completing his morning workouts, he immediately scouted back to the slums of Arendelle and kept to the shadows as he watched whores and gamblers and thugs prowl the area.

He checks his pocket watch for the third time. Truthfully, he didn’t really know who to look for. If these Inferno Assassins were hiding out in the kingdom, and if they were smart, then of course they wouldn’t be strolling around in colors of red, orange, and yellow. Or maybe so, he doesn’t know.

The fact of so little information he possesses makes him want to scream. Every other person seemed easier to investigate in his earlier years. Even at the age of sixteen he had single-handedly acquired the battle plans of one of the top generals of the King back home. Then there’s a covert mission he and four other men were sent on when he was seventeen to attack and eliminate enemy assassins tracking them for half the winter.

As he checks around the chimney for his fifth time in the passing of two minutes, he tries to keep an eye out for any signs of glinting metal behind cloaks, darker clothing with masks and to see someone look over their shoulder.

Then he spots it. He sees a figure walk towards the front entrance of the building, guarded by a burly man with tattoo covering the entirety of both arms and coated in clothes of ebony. The figure has a dark colored cloak on, but just as he enters the tavern, caught in the glimpse of the golden light.

His cape glows a deep red.

Careful not to knock his shield into the brick, Michael eases his way off the roof and shimmies down a drainpipe into the alley below. He does his best to hide it under his cloak. Despite its benefits of battle, it could be a dead giveaway. Even thieves and assassins didn’t wander around with shields on.

Michael slowly peers out from the alleyway and finds nothing. The guard at the front door keeps turning his head from side to side and Michael snatches a bottle from a passed out drunkard. He slides from shadow to shadow until he’s adjacent to the guard.

Throwing the bottle across the way, the guard jolts when he hears the crash, allowing Michael to swoop in and knock him unconscious with the hilt of his dagger. He quickly drags the thug underneath the shadows and adjusts his legs to make him look like he’s fallen asleep on the job. Not only will this allow Michael inside, but it’ll flood the tavern with people to conceal within the crowd.

Slinking his way inside, one can find the cutthroats, the monsters, and the damned of Arendelle. The filth come here to exchange stories and make deals, and it is here that any whisperer of the Queen’s attempted assassination will be found. Michael heads down the steps into the speakeasy, the reek of ale and unwashed bodies hit him like a stone to the face.

It makes no difference how many see him. None will bother him tonight.

He has one plan in mind, and through whatever means, he will execute it. Thank goodness the princess and queen weren’t here with him tonight. But then again, he did leave without their knowledge.

The cape billows behind him, his face remaining expressionless beneath his obsidian mask as he moves towards the bar counter. The barkeep is already pale, his sparse hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. He tries to peer beneath peer beneath Michael’s cowl as he halts at the bar, but the mask and hood keep his features hidden.

“Drink?” The barkeep asks, wiping sweat from his brow. 

“No.” Michael says, his voice is contorted and deep beneath his mask.

The barkeep grips the edge of the counter. Michael leans on the bar, crossing one ankle of the other. The barkeep mops his brow again and pours him a brandy. “On the house,” he says, sliding it to Michael. He catches it in his hand, but doesn’t drink it. “How can I be of service?”

Michael spins the glass in a circle in his hands. “I’m looking for the Inferno Assassins.” he says, using the name that this group has already been titled. “I’m plotting an assassination on the royal family too. And it would seem that they need my help. So where are they?”

People lean back in their chairs, straining to hear. Let them spread rumors. Let them hesitate before crossing his path.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The barkeep’s face turns pale.

Michael reaches into a pocket and pulls out a glittering fistful of gold. A mere eighth of his pay for the week. All eyes watched them now.

“Allow me to repeat my question, barkeep.”

“No need.” A voice speaks behind them.

Michael looks over his shoulder and finds the man he was hoping to gain the attention of. Turning to him, the barkeep takes back the brandy drink. With a sweep of his arm, the gold is off the counter.

The man is cloaked in black like Michael, only his attire and cloak seem to ripple red in the limited light. Michael can already see two duel swords with long curved blades and a gleaming snake etched into its gold pommel.

“I’m not sure whether to laugh or to spit.” Michael snarls.

“I’d watch your tongue, boy.” The man replies with a narrow of his eyebrows.

“I would if I knew you’d be a challenge.”

The man’s gloved hands clench. One slightly twitches towards the hilt of his swords, but lowers. Michael doesn’t need to kill him, not yet. He just needs to taunt enough that he can piece more of the plan together. Hopefully they’ll be that stupid.

“So you want to join our faction?” the man asks.

“I’m, interested.” Michael phrases. “Though it would seem they’ll hire anyone these days. I heard about the failed assassination, and it would seem someone of my talents will be of use to you. _Maybe_ even make you all seem like an _actual_ threat.”

“If our master was here you’d shut your mouth.” The man takes a daring step forward. That enough makes the people sitting near bolt out of his way.

“If he was, then maybe it would be a challenge. But what you don’t understand is that you’re a representation of him, and if this is all he has to offer, then I am _severely_ disappointed.”

The man growls beneath his cowl.

“What is your objective after the elimination of the Queen and Princess? Have _him_ take over the throne? A mere grasp of power for dictation of the kingdom?”

“More like he wants to expand his empire.”

“What?” Michael’s heart pats slightly faster.

“He has more power than you dare to let on. His empire is spreading.”

“Well, at least he’s doing _something_ right, I suppose.” Michael purrs.

“If you so desire, I am the third ranking of his most trusted assassins. And I’ll be more than happy to test your blade and shut your mouth.” The man challenges.

“And to whom do I have the pleasure of challenging?” Michael asks.

Beneath the man’s mask, he can sense the smirk. “Aaron.”

“Good. I’ve been searching for some entertainment.” Michael says.

But he barely finishes his sentence, barely manages to bring up his forearm – protected with a steel vambrace – to block his face as the Aaron’s dagger readies to slice at his nose. Michael’s free hand manages to grab a dagger from his belt and parry Aaron’s next stab for his eye. The people in the tavern squeak and scramble out of the way as the brawl begins. They cower in the corners and the barkeep ducks behind the counter.

Michael pulls forth another dagger and he sidesteps out of the way of Aaron’s oncoming kick and slices a cut along Aaron’s calf before spinning and goes to slash at his side. But Aaron blocks it with his short sword and their metal clangs against one another before Aaron’s fist plows into Michael’s jaw.

Pain crackles along the side of his face, traveling up his temple and around his skull. Michael’s back slams into the wall but he keeps his sense in check as he ducks under the next punch armed with a spiked knuckle brace. But the next one comes striking like a viper at his side and Michael stumbles back, clashing with a table set. Blood dribbles down his chin and Michael and sense the throbbing pain of his split lip.

As Aaron charges Michael grabs a chair and swings it towards Aaron as he swings a spiked mace. The collision sounds with a bone-shaking rumble and Michael can feel the power of Aaron as he’s sent flying backwards, through the closed tavern door and into the street, the chair flying next to him. Michael’s stomach clenches as he catches the waft of charred wood and his back aches with the feeling of splinters impaling his spine.

 _On your feet_ , Michael commands to himself.

Pushing to his feet, Michael looks over his shoulder, and his eyes wide as he finds Aaron’s mace glowing. The head of the weapon flickers and spits with fire.

“Why does your master want the Queen dead?” Michael commands.

“Power!” The assassin comes up behind him, but Michael spins and strikes him with a roundhouse kick. Stumbling back, Aaron blocks Michael’s coming punches and kick to the shoulder. “That woman doesn’t deserve the crown. He seeks to unite her kingdom with many others he’s conquered! The creation of a new world!”

Aaron then spins under the blade of Michael’s dagger and kicks him in the stomach. Michael is sent skipping back, but he’s on his feet before he even finishes rolling. Aaron stabs his sword into the flame, turns it once, and then swings. Fire explodes as if from the mouth of a dragon. The fire swarms over Michael’s cloak, setting it aflame.

Michael wastes no time, jumping backwards and slicing off his cloak where it attaches to the clasps atop his shoulders.

As Aaron plows for him, Michael takes two long strides before leaping up and kneeing Aaron in the jaw, then kicking him in the neck. He’s sent twirling in the air and crashing into a wooden crate of a wheelbarrow.

Michael charges forward in a sprint as the assassin groans and struggles to his feet. Michael crosses his arms and hurls forward. He feels the air leave Aaron’s stomach as his arms hit his sternum. The force jerks the wheelbarrow forward and down a slight incline of the road.

As it gains momentum, Michael punches Aaron left and right before pushing off his feet, leaping off as the wheelbarrow crashes into an open-ended carriage of cabbage and potatoes.

Drawing two serrated daggers, Michael spins and dives down like a bird of prey. He spins downwards, but only slices at a sack of spuds. Then Aaron’s foot swipes like a snake, knocking out Michael’s feet. Michael doesn’t even hit the ground before Aaron’s knee rams into his stomach and then he locks his hands together and whacks them at Michael’s with his mace.

Pain crackles along his cheek, shattering his thoughts, and black dots fill his vision. Warmth dribbles down his chin and Michael knows his nose is bleeding. His back aches and throbs and the urge to vocalize the pain grows more.

He rolls along the stone, sliding to a stop at the base of a street oil lamp; citizens taking attention. Michael summersaults backwards as Aaron comes running now with a dagger in each hand. Michael stands and steps out of the way, the two of them dance down the street. As Aaron’s hands go to stab for his face, Michael grabs both of his wrists and swings him to the ground.

Some of the town’s people gasp and scream, quickly evacuating the area the moment Michael’s eyes spot them.

Wrenching the daggers away, Michael slices off two of the armored belts on Aaron and as he goes to stab the man in the chest, Aaron grabs his wrist and swings him into the lamppost, denting its shaft. Whacking him to the ground, Aaron raises his foot and goes to stomp in Michael’s face. But with his shield, Michael blocks both attempts and brings his legs up kicking Aaron farther down the street.

He crashes into a flower stand and they sprinkle all around and on him. He growls as he staggers to one knee. Michael finds the flaming mace on the ground and quickly sprints, gripping it and raising it above his head. He manages to make it to Aaron before he pushes to his feet, and Michael swings it once, twice . . . as he goes for the third swing, Aaron’s arm whips out and whacks at Michael, sending him back and crashing into the glass window of a clothing store.

Michael stifles a cry of pain and opens his eyes to find Aaron there again and the next thing he feels is his back crashing _through_ the window. Throwing his head back, gasping for breath, Michael can see the tiles stained with red from the blood seeping into his mask.

It’s a toy store; that much he can gather from the stuffed bears dropping around him. he spits out a mouthful of blood, every inch of his back aching from the glass and wood and bruises already starting to form. He lets his blood seep into his mask as he slips between the aisles.

To be honest, he hopes the assassin fled. His body is sore, his head positively aches, and at any moment Michael fears he will pass out from exhaustion. Unfortunately, Aaron leaps through the window, drawing the slenderest dagger from his belt. His boots crunch on the glass, the blade gleaming like quicksilver.

Michael sheathes his daggers and draws his bow, leaning his shield against a shelf. Slipping from shadow to shadow, he watches Aaron. As the assassin rummages through giant bins and chests, Michael winds up a music box with gentle fingers.

He’s gone as it starts to sing, and as Aaron chucks a dagger at the mass of shadow. Michael manages to make it to the opposite side of the shop and aims his arrow. As it fires, the assassin whirls around and whacks if away before sending another one aimed for Michael’s neck.

As he dodges, Aaron is already there to pin him against the wall. He goes to deliver the deathblow, but Michael grabs his wrist and kicks him away. Punching him left and right, he dodges Aaron’s swipe of his dagger and goes and elbows the Inferno Assassin. Michael then spins and swings his leg into Aaron’s head.

His blow falls short as Arron tackles them back through the window and into the streets once more. They tumble and roll, and Michael manages to pin him beneath his knees.

Aaron’s eyes struggle to open, and Michael feels irk as he sees the assassin smirk. “Not bad, you certainly hold up to your title.”

“Excuse me if I’m not appreciative of your compliment.” Michael snarls. He then spins his dagger between his fingers and raises it high. The guards won’t be able to contain Aaron even if Michael brings him to the dungeon. If escaping the dungeon was less than mere child’s play for him, for Aaron, it won’t be much of a challenge. “I’ll give you one last word for your men before I dump your remains into the sewers.”

“You’re fighting a war you don’t want to start, bastard.” Aaron chuckles. “You kill me, and I’m sure you’ll attract their attention.”

Michael coldly smiles and leans his face in close enough to the assassin to kiss him. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

Faster than Aaron can react, Michael jabs his dagger down into his chest. The assassin shudders, and Michael watches his eyes grow distant as he twists the dagger before yanking it out.

He watches the assassin slump and his eyes grow distant. Glazed with the far-seeing stare of the dead.

Michael doesn’t have time to chop up the body into bits, but enough to tie it up and leave it hanging by the neck, and then disappearing into the shadows before the citizen he saw in the threshold of their cottage home, call the guards on patrol nearby.

Michael has enough sense to snatch a cloak off a drunk dozing on a corner and wipe the blood from his face, even though it takes several tries to keep his hands steady as he runs. Once the cloak conceals his ruined clothes, he makes for the main gates of the castle grounds – where the guards recognize him, though the lights are too dim for them to look closely. His head throbs and his bloodied lip hurts like a bitch. He just has to get inside, get to safety . . .

But he stumbles on the straight road into the castle courtyard, and his run turns into a staggering walk before he even gets to the castle itself. He can’t go in the front like this, not unless he wants everyone to see.

The pain throbs with every step he takes as he disappears under a shadowy alcove heading for the servants back entrance through the courtyard. Not the best place, but good enough. Hopefully the castle was smart enough to have mystical healers.

 _One foot in front of the other. Just a little further_ . . .

He doesn’t remember getting to the servant’s doors, only the coolness of the metal studs as he pushes them open. The light of the hall burns his eyes, but at least he’s inside.

The door to the mess hall is open, and the sounds of laughter and clinking mugs float towards him. At least his body still has feeling.

One hand braced against the wall, the other holding his cloak tightly around him, Michael slips past the mess hall, every breath lasting a lifetime. No one stops him, no one even looks at him.

There is one door down this hall that he has to reach – one room where he’d be safe. He keeps his hand on the stone wall, counting the doors as he passes. His cloak catches on the handle of a door as he passes by and rips it away.

But he makes it to that door, to the room where he’d be safe. His hand slips on the grain of wood as he pushes against the door, and resorts to using his shoulder. Shoving the door open, he nearly fumbles to the ground from the pounding in his head and the pain that sears through his joints. He hears the gasp of a woman and the clattering of mortars and pestles before hurried footsteps approach him.

Gently hands brace him up and he lifts his head to find golden-brown eyes wide and gaping at him.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” Michael breathes.

Unfortunately, his knees buckle but surprisingly, the healer braces him sturdily and helps him stumble over to a chair. Sitting down, relief floods his joints, only his stomach feels like it is still moving. Michael suddenly wants to remain standing so his stomach can feel like it is slowing down.

Before he can give her a fair warning, Michael hunches over and begins to convulse from his spinning head. The woman already has a trash can in front of him as Michael heaves. His body is coated with sweat and reeks of blood.

Once he’s sure he is done and his stomach is empty, he wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. The healer doesn’t say anything, and Michael doesn’t feel any fear as she takes out a large hunting knife and rips open his shirt. Her face is a professional mask as she yanks the fabric down to his waist, revealing the severe bruising spreading across his back. There are little splinters and bits of glass poking out as well.

After he hears her sigh, she walks over to her worktable and pours some kind of liquid onto a rag before handing it to him. “Smell it, slowly. Take deep breathes. It will help with the headache and stomach.”

Michael does as ordered. Almost immediately, the nausea eases and his headache dulls. He keeps his breathing steady as the healer removes his belt of weapons and twists open a small metal tin revealing a pale green ointment and the smell of medicine permeates his nose.

“It might sting a little.” She tells.

Michael merely shakes his head and then he feels her fingertips rubbing along his back. The ointment is cool for one second before heating up, but Michael hisses only because of the pressure her fingertips as she glides over the bruises of his back. Then it starts to cool again and Michael can’t stop the sigh of relief that escapes his lips. There’s still his bloodied nose and bruises on his face, but his back is her main priority.

As she moves to examine his face, Michael tries not to look her in the eye, not that she would care either way. She doesn’t ask questions, and he is glad. His upper torso is now bare, his shoes taken off and tossed to the side, and now all he wears is the pair of bloodstained pants. As the healer moves to his front, she takes his chin and slowly begins to smear the ointment around his face with her fingertips.

She’s a pretty young thing. Apart from her golden-brown eyes, she has a long black braid over her right shoulder and smooth, tan skin. While her cheeks are slightly pink, she keeps her face serious and expressionless. No doubt built up over the years with her job and experience.

“I’m surprised nothing is broken.” She comments as she wipes her hands on her apron. She turns back to the table and starts to grind something.

“You and me both. But is there anything serious?”

“Not form what I can tell, surprisingly. Must’ve been some grudge match though.” She says, patting whatever it is she’s grinding in the mortar.

“How long will it take to heal?” Michael asks.

“The bruises will have to heal on their own, and a few of the cuts will be gone within four days if you apply the tonic I’m giving you three times a day.”

“Alright.”

There’s the sound distant doors opening and the clicking of shoes. Something about the stature makes the healer grow more rigid and her work speed increases. She quickly turns and hands Michael more of the tonic for the cuts on his arms. As he rubs the tonic on his arms, the door to the healer’s room opens.

And in steps a familiar blue-heeled foot, and following it is the Snow Queen.

* * *

Elsa had come down to the healer’s chambers to ask for clarification on a tonic, but her sentence stops dead when she finds Michael shirtless, and with bruises and cuts along his arms.

His sapphire eyes find hers but instead of seeing worry or surprise, she merely finds exhaustion. In her arms, she is carrying a couple of scrolls and books, but they clatter to the floor and her feet hurry to Michael, her hands grasping his mostly uninjured shoulder.

“Michael!” She cries. “What happened?!”

“Elsa, I’m fine.” Gods, his voice is like sandpaper.

“Your injuries say otherwise!” She looks to the healer. “When he come here?”

The healer keeps her attention on the Queen even as her hands continue to mix a small pile of red-toned spice. “He arrived only seven minutes ago.”

Elsa turns back to Michael. “What happened?” She commands.

“I’m just doing my job.” Michael says.

“What _happened_?”

“I was investigating the Inferno Assassins, and I managed to find one. And yeah he got in a few good hits but –”

He stops when he sees her shaking her head, placing her fingertips on the bridge of her nose.

“Look, I managed.” He snaps. “It’s mostly bruising and a few cuts. None of them deep.”

“You look like you were used as a punching back.” Elsa says, her tone harsh. She can feel something pooling in her stomach, something cold . . .

Michael immediately springs from his seat, throwing the wet rag to the ground. It’s speckled with bits of red from the dry blood on Michael’s face. “You hired me to find out who it is that’s trying to kill you. And that’s exactly what I’m doing!”

“I never gave you permission to run around picking fights!” Elsa counters.

A viscous snarl contorts Michael’s lips. “Since when did I even _ask_ for your _permission_? I work alone, and I do it _my_ way. And if you’ve got a problem with that, then you can find someone else!”

He doesn’t give her a chance to respond before he stomps over to the healer, taking the ointment with a mumbled thank you, and storming out of the room.

Did he just walk out . . .? On _her_?!

“Michael!” Elsa hollers after him. He gathers up the skirt of her gown and hurries after him. “Michael.” She calls as she sees his powerful back muscles expanding and contracting as he walks.

When he refuses to stop, Elsa huffs and shoots out her hand. The walls of the hallway turn sharp blue with ice and it spreads out in front of Michael into a wall. He stops just in time, but doesn’t turn towards Elsa. Instead, he sighs and folds his arms, leaning one shoulder against the wall.

“Michael.” Elsa says as she catches up to him, standing off to his side. “Look at me.”

He does, and Elsa can’t help but think of how his tan skin and bright blue eyes make him highly attractive. His expression is a mixture of annoyance and anger, and the bruises along his jaw are purple and brown. “What?”

“What are _you_ so upset about?” Elsa challenges. “You’re the one who left the castle, without my knowing, and then I come down here to find you beaten and bruised and bleeding!”

He gives a deadly grim. “At least I’m alive. You can’t say the same about that Inferno Assassin.”

Elsa swallows and stares at Michael. “Why didn’t you bring him to the castle?”

“If your guards couldn’t contain me, then they sure as hell wouldn’t be able to keep a _real_ assassin in their jail.”

“I thought you weren’t one to kill!”

“And I said that sometimes I need to take matters into my own hands.” Michael growls. “Again, if you have problems with how I work, find someone else. Now let me through!”

“No!” The ice cracks, but hardens as she stomps her foot to emphasize her prickling anger.

“What more do you want?”

Elsa steps her way in front of Michael. “I want to know why you didn’t tell me you were leaving!”

“That’s none of your business.” Michael says averting his gaze.

“You’re working for me!”

Michael pushes off the wall and look into her eyes. Elsa feels her blood run cold when she sees the deadly calm and anger honed in his face; hardening his features. “I told you, Queen, from the very beginning how I work and what you would witness while with me.”

Elsa despises herself for how weak her voice sounds as she says, “But I also said that I wanted to help you –”

“That doesn’t entitle you to hang on my arm and escort me to every mission I go on. I told you this is dangerous in more ways than one!”

“Well if you won’t let me join you on every mission, then let me help some other way. Remember, I’m filthy stinking rich, and I can have just as many good contacts as you!” Michael coldly laughs at how spoiled she sounds, a contrast from her normal gracious demeanor. “What is so wrong with me trying to help?”

“Because it puts your life on the line. And it’s already treading on a thin wire as it is.”

“I told you I wasn’t afraid.” Elsa emphasizes through grit teeth.

“And I believed you. But I’m worried for you.”

“Oh, so you can worry for me but I can’t worry for you? Is it because I’m some helpless damsel in distress?” The ice crackles more, sharp spikes, slowly protruding towards them. Elsa keeps an eye on one that’s close to the back of Michael’s neck.

“Don’t even think about playing that sex card with me!” Michael snarls, his eyes flashing.

To her credit, she holds her ground. “So it’s only about the pay I give you. If I get killed you don’t get paid.”

“It has absolutely _nothing_ to do with that!” Michael yells, his fist plowing into the ice, crackling it and the hallway echoing the heavy reverberation until she can feel it in her bones.

“Then what’s so wrong with me wanting to help, let along wanting to worry about you?!”

“Because I’m not some silly fool – and I’m not saying you are – who can’t protect himself and use his head!” Michael yells.

“Did I ever imply that?” Elsa counters.

“No, but you act like I’m leaving you behind, telling me how you worry, and insist you help me with things, and –”

“Because I _do_ worry!”

“Well, you shouldn’t! I’ve been looking after myself since I was thirteen years old!”

Elsa takes a step towards him, her eyes sparking. “Believe me, Michael.” She snarls with grit teeth. “I know you can look after yourself. But I worry because I _care_. Gods help me, I know I shouldn’t, but I do. So I will _always_ tell you to be careful, because I will _always_ care what happens.”

Michael blinks, his brows raising. “Oh.” Is all he manages.

Elsa sighs, and as if she had blown a wave of heat against the ice, the spiked wall melts away; a small hole starting at the center and slowly spreading outwards until it reaches the bricks and then they slowly ebb away until only wet stone is left.

The Snow Queen rubs her arms and lean against the wet bricks, her cape flowing behind her. She sighs and sniffs.

“Look,” Elsa sighs. “when I eighteen, my parents . . .” She rubs folds of her gown between her fingers. “. . . my parents died at sea; in a shipwreck. At the time, I was still afraid of my powers. And my father would always try to help me find a way to cope. So with them gone, I just felt, powerless. Afraid. It took forever to try and control it, and I guess, for some odd and maybe stupid, reason the idea of you leaving the castle without me, I guess it just has that same abandoned feeling. You’re the only person who has made me feel safe in, forever.”

Michael doesn’t say anything, and only glances at Elsa before he leans his back against the wall, tucking his hands into his pockets, the bloodied shirt thrown over his shoulder. The torches make his skin glow golden, and she can see more scars dotting across his body. Had she been a fool to tell him something so personal?

“My parents were killed too.” Michael mumbles, the words themselves stiff as if it’s difficult for him to even say it. “Butchered on the block right in front of me.” Elsa turns towards him and steps closer. By the gods . . . “They were accused of helping out the rebels of our kingdom. After that, my hatred for our king grew enough that I joined up with the rebels, and soon dethroned him. While I’ll never get the answers I need, I’d like to think, or more rather hope, that they’re proud of me for what I’m doing.”

Elsa rubs her arm again. “How – how long did it take you to come back from that kind of loss?” she asks.

“I didn’t. For a long time, I couldn’t.” He leans his head back until it bumps the bricks. “I felt hollow, empty. He took away everything and everyone I cared about, and I kept thinking that everything I did was for not. And that I would never be able to redeem them. I think I’m still . . . not back. I might never be. Carrying around a wound like that, it cuts you; like a dagger to the heart.”

Elsa nods, lips pressed tight and turns her attention to the ground. They are alike in so many ways, but different in so many more. If they aren’t who they are, they could’ve been friends.

Then again, who’s to say they still can’t be? It takes an immense amount of self-control to not reach up and place her hand on his chest. To feel that warmth, yet that anger that fuels him so strongly. Her eyes trail along his arms, his chest, his beautifully gleaming abdomen as they ripple. She’s never seen someone so handsome. Instead, she resorts to fiddling with her braid.

“Maybe,” she says, quietly enough that Michael looks at him again. “Maybe we can find the way back, together.”

Something roils in her stomach when those sapphire eyes look to her. They have similar pasts, having to look after themselves, fearing the unknown and carrying weights that leave nothing but exhaustion and an anger that has slowly ebbs into a hollow silence.

“I would like that very much.” Michael barely whispers.

He smiles, and she returns it without hesitation. Her hand then extends out and she links their arms together, despite Michael’s shirt still thrown over his shoulder. They walk down the hallway more and up the set of stairs on their left towards the ground floor.

“So how was the assassin?” Elsa asks with a soft smile.

“He wasn’t a total waste of my time. He was the third in command.”

“What?” Elsa gasps.

“Yeah. He had a flaming weapon, which I assume will be a staple of all of the Inferno Assassins.” Michael itches his hair and holds open the door for her until her train is past the threshold.

“While I know this is a bad time to mention it,” She clears her throat. “But Anna and I will be hosting a ball tonight.”

“What?!”

“At least let me explain!” Elsa chuckles, holding out her hands to cease another argument he is about to propose.

“Elsa . . .” Michael pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Please, listen. Anna and I had this planned weeks prior before your arrival. And you are going to attend and be on guard, as you’ve been hired to do.”

“Do you not understand the dangers of this?”

“Do you not understand the advantage of this?” Michael raises an eyebrow. “With you recent killing of the assassin, they can’t resist sending another member out to avenge him or seek revenge.”

“Exactly.”

“But, this’ll be your chance to take out another one, and maybe this time this one we can capture and interrogate.”

“I don’t exactly trust your guards and your dungeon. It couldn’t hold me. Let alone hold you and your ice abilities.”

“With you there, what could possibly go wrong?” Elsa smirks. “You’re not doubting yourself are you?”

Michael gives her a sly grin. “Don’t even try to test me. If you had seen the battle I had proposed to Aaron, you wouldn’t doubt me in the slightest.”

“I never said I did.” Elsa says, already assuming that this _Aaron_ was the assassin Michael killed.

He sighs and rubs his hands over his face. Gods, even his hands are scarred up to his fingers. “I don’t know if you’re incredibly stupid, or incredibly smart.”

“Watch what you say, Michael. Remember I control how much you get paid.”

“I’m usually never in it for the money.” Michael says.

“Then what does please you?” She smiles. Michael says nothing but shakes his head but chuckles softly.

Despite the heat rising in her cheeks, Elsa links their arms again and they walk each other through the hallways. Their silence wrapping around them like a warm blanket.


	9. Chapter 9

Turns out the ball is more of a hosting for some suitors that are coming to impress the queen. The thought almost makes Michael want to laugh. He doubts that the ball was Elsa’s idea – the queen appearing more than callous about picking a suitor. No doubt it was more Kai's idea; Michael is surprised the queen actually agreed to it. Maybe it’s just so the steward will cease his pestering for a few months.

Elsa said Michael was to be on guard, but never fully explained what uniform he would wear. No – the queen only held his arm, resting her head against his shoulder during their walk from the healer’s room. She kept it there as they went up three flights of stairs, turning two lefts and a right through the hallways until they reached his spacious suite – Elsa having reassigned what room he’ll be staying in during his time in Arendelle. Michael couldn’t help but notice the ornate detailing that covers ever near inch of the castle, the colorful stain-glass windows bathing the halls in a kaleidoscope of muted rainbows.

Once they reached his rooms, the queen even guided him into his bedroom where Michael sat down on the edge of the bed, placing the tonic the healer gave him on his nightstand.

After the queen did her own final inspection, Michael unable to suppress his chuckling, she spared a gentle kiss on his head. It took him by surprise, the queen even more so that she did it – her cheeks turned deep pink and quickly spared a polite farewell before leaving the room on quick feet.

It took Michael by such surprise, but he was so exhausted that after she left, he immediately fell asleep when his head hit the pillow.

Even now, sprawled naked along the couch, a book on his hand, his head still buzzes from the kiss. He’s tried chalking it up to something she does out of habit with her sister, perhaps – but what bothers him is how much he deeply enjoyed it.

He hasn’t had such affection – from anyone – since his parents’ passing. Ever since then, it’s always been training and training and training.

And he never dared to open up his heart to anyone since.

There were some healers in the rebellion of course; but their gentleness isn’t personal – it had been taught to them. Any affection they gave was to help calm the patient. None of his mentors could replace his father – none of them were ever able to fill that mold.

He quells the thoughts with a sigh, turning a page in his book. Lounging in the solarium attached to his suite, Michael gives a ghost of a smile as the afternoon sun warms his skin. His only decency being the berry colored throw blanket that drapes across his loin.

It’s been a couple of days since he’s killed the Third in Command of those Inferno Assassins, and his jaw still aches from the bruises. Most of the cuts have already healed and the healer did a wonderful job of working out any knots in his back. Still, it didn’t stop Elsa from using it as an excuse to reschedule the ball for another week. Likely just to piss off the suitors enough that they’ll leave.

A door closes in the front, Michael lifting his head from the posh pillow to attempt to peer at who it was. Delicate heels click along the wood floor and he recognizes it as one of the servants. This room is luxurious – the best he’s stayed in yet – but its size is unnecessary.

The first noticeable thing is the dark wood flooring that spreads into his open bedroom, and into the four thick columns that surround his bed. Flanked by two nightstands, an elegant chandelier hands overhead from decorative circle designs in the ceiling. A small canopy drapes over the embellished headboard, the thick cotton sheets inflating the already fluffy mattress.

Ornately carved, velvet furniture is accented with gold whorls forming the shape of snowflakes; a small gathering poised in front of a grand – now vacant – fireplace. Opaque teal draperies are pulled back to flood the room with sunlight, sending the wall sconces glittering. The turquoise walls extend throughout the spacious suite; into the dining room – occupied by a useless table for six – and into a solarium where two doors open to a balcony.

The room is more than what he expected. Being so unaccustomed to such open space, he nearly jumped at every door that opened across the suite. Now having lived three days in this room – nearly a week and a half of being in Arendelle – Michael’s marked the routines of all the servants; now knowing when to expect them.

The solarium is his favorite – with its wall-to-wall windows and a rounded atrium separated by double doors he leaves open. It has one couch and three armchairs with ottomans surrounding a low-lying wood coffee table; all with plush, steel blue cushions and pillows for upmost comfort. The couch practically cradles him, the tassels of the throw blanket tickling his knee.

The glass top of the coffee table shines a vertical rainbow along one window, the legs carved to mimic delicate leaves. On it sits his half-finished cup of lemon tea, and the small three-tiered platter which sits empty after Michael wolfed down the variety of desserts it had. The only remanence being the multitude of crumbs sprinkled along its surface.

Today he’s debating whether or not to scope out the slums again for more of the assassins, but he wonders if they’ll even be there due to the numbers they’ve already lost. Perhaps it would be best to just leave them be – if they know about the suitor’s ball, they’ll likely plan something. He can’t risk killing every single one he runs into, otherwise he may drive them deeper within the city, and he’ll be back at square one of trying to find them.

Michael sighs, resting the book on his chest and closes his eyes.

So far they seem to be staying in the slums, the Pits their main meeting ground, for now. Every criminal decides to stay in the underbelly of the city – due to it being a place of common fear for the decent people. No one dares to go to the slums unless their crazy or overconfident.

On the other hand, assassins are trained creatures of manipulation and deception. They could be hiding in a prestige house in one of the wealthier districts of Arendelle. Both of his contacts left him with little choice, and little information. It would for now, his best option would be to prowl the streets all together and see if there’s anything unusual he can follow. The thought alone makes him grown in annoyance.

Suddenly there’s a sharp gasp and a female voice cries, “Oh, my goodness!”

Michael’s eyes open and he lifts his head to peer at its source . . . and he can’t help but grin.

Queen Elsa stands in the doorway to the solarium, shielding her eyes with her arm. Her cheeks are a red and she’s stuttering as Michael rises to sit on the couch. He chuckles with a smug grin, but it’s quickly wiped away as that little snowman suddenly skips into the room. Above his head sits a little cloud, sprinkling an even littler flurry of snow.

“Oh, I do love this room – it’s so nice and calming. Did you know that blue is a known color to entice the calmness of the mind?” he babbles to Elsa, painfully unaware of her embarrassment, or Michael’s nudity.

When the snowman turns to him, Michael resists the urge to flinch, stopping his hand from instinctively going to the dagger he tucked in between the couch cushions.

The snowman stops, his eyes scanning Michael’s body from neck to toe. His mouth drops open, blinking for a few seconds before saying, “Wow . . . I wish I could have such incredible aesthetics, but I still need to lose some snowflakes from the last Christmas snowfall.” He leans closer to Michael covering his mouth with one hand, as if it could quiet his voice as he says. “It all just goes straight to my thighs, you know?”

Though the animated snowman still unnerves Michael, he attempts to amuse him, only because he enjoys relishing in the queen’s embarrassment so much more. She’s still covering her eyes, immobilized by shock.

Michael sets his book aside, adjusting the blanket as he says, “Do forgive me, sir, but I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting each other.”

He extends out his hand as the little snowman gasps and bursts into laughter. He grabs Michael’s hand and jumps with jubilance while shaking it. “Hi, I’m Olaf, and I like warm hugs!”

“Very nice to meet you, Olaf.” Michael says, careful to keep his grip light so he doesn’t break the snowman’s arm.

“Michael, please,” Elsa sharply interrupts. “can’t you make yourself more decent?”

Michael rises from the couch, holding the blanket so that it covers his front . . . but just barely. All the while, he keeps his smile that he knew is making the queen irate. “Well forgive me, You Majesty, but given these are _my_ rooms, I assumed I was allowed to enjoy them in my upmost comfort.”

He decides to finally spare her and wraps the blanket around his waist.

“And it’s not like I expected you to grace me with your presence so unannounced.”

“Oh, don’t simper at me! Just put on some clothes!”

Still Michael chuckles as he takes his time sauntering over towards his closet. He pulls out a tunic and pants, then goes over to his dresser where he pulls out a fresh pair of undergarments. Elsa has since resorted to shielding her eyes with her hand, carefully meandering her way through the room. Once Michael is behind the dressing screen, he hears the queen sigh in aggravated relief.

“So, might I ask what brought upon this visit?” Michael asks, tossing the blanket over the top of the screen. He truly didn’t expect to see the queen after the kiss she left, but he’s been trying to simplify it himself. Perhaps it’s her way of indicating it was a small slip of maternal instinct.

Through the screen Elsa says, “I was hoping we could attempt to train again, today.”

Michael pauses, his shirt hallway up his elbows. “I suppose; it would be nice to enjoy the weather before we’re all forced inside.”

Throwing the shirt over his head, he steps into his pants, securing a belt to his waist. When he emerges from behind the screen, Elsa has seated herself on the divan at the end of his bed. Still she sits with a steeled spine, hands folded in her lap. Her cheeks have calmed, but her lips stay pressed in a tight line.

Michael fetches a pair of socks from his dresser. He digs under the bed for a moment until he finds his boots, admittedly cringing at their state. With paled spots and loose stitching, he is aware of the queen’s gaze as he ties the laces. The boots pinch his toes and rub his ankles raw, even through his socks, but he hasn’t bothered to find another pair.

Somewhere across the suite, Olaf giggles to himself. Michael looks up to find the snowman skipping around the solarium with the blanket he didn’t see Olaf snatch.

“Might I ask why you wanted to train? Are you bored out of your mind, or are you trying to avoid someone?” Michael asks as he ties his other boot.

Elsa huffs, but he can see her picking at nonexistent dirt under her nails. “While my sister is spending time with Kristoff today –” Michael can only assume that was the blonde-haired man accompanied by the reindeer “– I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget the deal we made.”

“I didn’t forget, it’s just I _do_ have a second job that can be quite demanding.” Michael retorts.

Elsa remains seated as Michael stands and retrieves a pair of duel swords at the back of his armoire. He’s adjusting the straps when the queen suddenly asks, “Do you know about magical training . . .?”

It surprises Michael enough that he turns towards the queen with furrowed brows. She folds her lips in, afraid she might’ve asked the wrong question. Michael blinks, softening his gaze as he sighs. “No, I do not. Though there were some magic wielders in the rebellion, I never paid much attention to it.”

“You haven’t kept in contact with any of your former tutors?”

“No,” Michael straps another sword to his hip. “Never had much of a reason to once we overthrew the king. And before you ask – no, I never bothered to talk to any of the magic tutors as well.”

Mostly because though magic was accepted in the kingdom, Michael never really favored it. There was something otherworldly about it that always sent shivers running down his spine. He does remember watching some of the magic-wielders training: a crest of fire whipping through the air from swift kick, watching the skin stitch itself back together under a healer’s glowing hand, giant waves of water summoned at the flick of a wrist, lava spewing from the earth at the stomp of a foot.

“I see.” Michael catches the defeat in her voice.

“Are you looking for someone?”

Queen Elsa sighs, opening her palms. “I have been; with so little results. Considering where you came from, I was hoping you knew some people.”

“I kept to myself, most of the time.” Michael says with an apologetic shrug.

“You never bonded with anyone?” Elsa asks, turning towards him.

As Michael slips a dagger in each boot, he pauses as he reaches for third to attach to his belt. He remains still for a moment before sighing. “The murder of my parents was still fresh. I didn’t really _allow_ myself to bond with anyone, in fear it would distract me from my goal. Even after when a new leader was selected, with nothing else to do, I couldn’t stop.”

He turns to the queen, finally noticing her dressed in a pale blue tunic and white pants. Her periwinkle boots stop just below her knee.

“I still had plenty of anger left that I felt like I _needed_ to keep going. I hunted down any remaining criminals in my kingdom, and after that . . . I just felt, hollow. So, I ended up wandering from kingdom to kingdom, helping the crime however I could.”

Elsa rises from her seat, carefully approaching Michael. She places a hand on his shoulder – surprisingly warm despite her abilities. “Do you ever wonder when it’s enough?” she asks quietly.

“It never feels like enough.”

“Well, maybe the answers lie somewhere else. Maybe it’s not in crime-fighting, but something else. Like settling down, starting a family.”

Michael spares her a smile. “Relationship advice, coming from the queen who rescheduled an entire ball?”

Elsa smiles back, slapping his shoulder. “You know, I was trying to be nice, and helpful.”

“Appreciated, even if unasked.”

She walks over towards his front doors, Olaf falling behind her, the blanket now wrapped around his waist. “I’m sorry, I was just wondering.”

“Course. I’ll just make you pay for it in training.”

The Queen gives a nervous giggle before leaving his rooms, Michael following after.

* * *

Elsa could still feel the warmth of her cheeks as she walks through the halls with Michael and Olaf flanking her.

It took almost all of her courage to force herself to go to his rooms this afternoon.

And as if the kiss wasn’t embarrassing enough, she walks in on him nude!

Elsa resists the urge to rub her hands over her face.

She knew Michael was fit, but she didn’t imagine _how much_ . . .! The way he looked sprawled along the couch, that putrid blanket draped low across his waist – of which Olaf has now adorned for some reason – it was like he was posing for an artist.

Why she wanted to see him again, she didn’t really know – training having been her perfect excuse. He had been resting for a couple of days since he killed that Third in Command, and Elsa had been occupied with meetings upon meetings and paperwork piling up to her hips. She had welcomed it initially, letting keep her from seeing Michael after her accidental kiss.

But when she was alone, and allowed to think, she found herself pondering over the kiss: why she did it, why it bothered her . . . and why she wished she had done more.

She knows the answer to each but refuses to explore.

After she and Michael had their argument, after she had opened up to him, and he in return, it had felt like progress had been made. A progress of trying to get to know him – to understand him.

It started with basics: mannerisms, personality, likes and dislikes – but then when she saw the similarities they shared, when she saw a small crevice of the person behind the cloak and shadows, her heart ached.

Because it near matched her own.

Deep within was someone who had their childhood ripped away from them; who inside, deep within, lie broken and withered.

Once they had finally reached his chambers, when the light of the fire and scones bathed the elegant panes of his face . . . she just couldn’t deny how beautifully handsome he was. The sharpness of his jaw, the way his hair looked like liquid midnight, the casting of the light and shadow along his broad shoulders . . .

His hair rippled through her fingers until she came to caress his jaw. Though she had been half-paying attention, she could’ve sworn she felt him lean into her touch – as if he too missed a gentle touch, a caring caress.

It had been a brief kiss, a gentle press of her lips against his temple. His hair smelt of jasmine, his skin a bit clammy, but she didn’t care at the time. Her thumb tentatively stroking the skin of cheek, feeling the scratch of his trimmed facial hair.

It was when he looked up to her, his sapphire eyes slightly widened with surprise, she’d never felt more embarrassed and quickly removed her hand. As she spared the most decent farewell she could muster, she thought she saw a bit of sadness – as if he already missed her soft touch.

But still she forced herself to walk out. Mainly due to a sensation growing in the pit just below her stomach; her powers starting to churn from the emotion. The rest of her evening wasn’t much easier, seeing his face whenever she closed her eyes, her thoughts wandering

She had woken up today hoping and praying that Anna would be home, and that they could do _something_ together, but as she ran into her sister in the halls, she was already dressed and ready to leave to spend the day with Kristoff. To do what, she truly didn’t know, but who is she to deny them time together.

Taking one look at the stack of papers on her desk, that never seems to grow smaller, she changed into some comfortable clothes and forced herself to his rooms.

With his hands in his pockets, he’s been entertaining Olaf, much to her relief. But she doesn’t doubt he noted her drifting off.

“So, I assume we’re going to be practicing with swords, or something?” Michael looks to her, lifting a brow. “Because last time, I practiced with that weird, club or something.”

Michael snickers at the mention, as if the very weapon itself was a joke to him. It was unusual for Elsa as well, but hopefully it’s a weapon for few use – it’s an advantage, if only slightly.

She’s been meaning to practice what Michael has taught her, but her queenly duties have prevented her otherwise.

“It would be best if you learned sword fighting. Are you right-handed or left-handed?”

“Right.” Elsa says, holding her chin up. “You?”

“I’m ambidextrous.” He answers, his attention directed out the windows.

Elsa’s eyes drift towards his hands, the skin looking scarred and callus. She notices how the fingers of his right hand look slightly crooked. Unnoticed at first because of the scar that trails from his middle finger to his wrist, but once seen, demands a closer inspection to see if it’s real. When her eyes flick back up to him, he’s caught her staring. Elsa takes a small but sharp inhale of surprise, folding her lips in.

His brows lift ever so slightly, as if daring her to ask. She lifts her own brows in question. Michael coldly chuckles. He pauses by one of the triangular windows, holding up his hand to the sunlight. She and Olaf stop with him, Olaf now wearing the blanket like a babushka.

“When I was about, fifteen, one of my instructor’s thought my swordplay with my left hand was abhorrent compared to my right.” Elsa tries not to shiver at how dark his eyes seem to grow upon the memory. “So, he gave me the choice of either letting him break my hand, or I do it myself.”

Elsa eyebrows narrow in disgust, swallowing past her tight throat. “Why?”

Next to her, she can see Olaf’s eyes widen as well.

“So that I could practice with my left hand. That night, I went to our blacksmith’s shop, took one of his heaviest hammers, and smashed my hand on the anvil. Shattered all of my fingers, nearly tearing a few tendons.” Michael flexes his hand, the imprint of the bones moving beneath. “Took months to heal; during with I trained with my left hand.”

Without thinking, Elsa says, “That’s so barbaric.”

Her resentment must’ve been obvious, because when he turns to her, his face softens with a sigh. He spares her a smile. “Don’t worry – I wouldn’t dream of making you do anything like that. As before, we’ll start with the basics.”

He continues to walk, but Elsa and Olaf stay behind for a moment. Olaf looks to her, and she feels his twig hand grip two of her fingers. She runs her thumb over them as she watches Michael walk down the hall, the muscles of his back rippling beneath his shirt, the shadows of the hall washing over him.

Elsa looks back down at Olaf, the little snowman giving her a small nod and a warm smile. She returns it, letting go of his hand as the two of them catch up to Michael.

Much like Kristoff, he seems rugged and harsh on the outside, but she knew that he still had a heart, however thickly it was protected by his stone-cold personality. Olaf sees it too; the little snowman’s conformational nod making her . . . excited.

As if she was waiting for someone else to confirm what she sees. Now that it’s done, she’s eager to chisel her way down and see what lies beneath.

And it doesn’t frighten her.

* * *

Michael had a distinct feeling that the queen didn’t initially come to train, but it provided a believable scapegoat. Running his fingers through his hair, he lets Elsa guide him through the halls and out to the courtyard.

With his week in Arendelle, he’s only memorized the west wing of the castle, unsure of what crosses the line of intrusion here. Queen Elsa has shown him some of the smaller libraries and parlors, Michael assuming no harm when he explored the servants’ passageways. Walking between the two fountains flanking the entrance, Michael pauses, observing where they could practice without bothering the servants.

“Where to, Michael?” Elsa asks, a smirk on her face.

Deviously perplexed, Michael grins as he notions his head to the left. “Over here, I guess. This way you won’t accidentally poke someone.”

Elsa sticks her tongue out at him, drawing a chuckle from him. Olaf takes a seat on the lip of one of the fountains. Michael unsheathes one of the swords from his back, spinning it in hand before handing it hilt-first to Elsa. The queen stares at the blade in surprise, almost intimidated. Her eyes flick to Michael, the question obvious. “Already? I don’t get like, a practice sword or something?”

“Practice?” Michael asks, grinning like a fiend. When the queen pouts, it only makes his smile broaden.

“I’ve seen the children around the kingdom practicing with wooden swords.”

“Because they’re children. You’re a woman.” He purposely rakes his eyes up and down the queen’s body – crediting the curves of her hips and the shape of her breasts. The queen’s cheeks turn read and she bares her teeth as she takes the sword from him. “See? Not so scary anymore.”

Looking at the blade in her hand, as if realizing what she’s holding, the queen’s expression changes instantly. Michael draws his second sword, spinning it between his hands. While it may appear pretentious, it’s more to awaken his muscle memory – to awaken what had been trained in him since he was thirteen.

He walks up to the queen, still holding the sword with two hands. She seems to have some understanding of how swordplay works, her feet already shoulder width apart, the blade pointed forward.

“We’ll start with your stance.” He says as he walks around the queen. She can see her shoulders tensing, but she doesn’t argue. He sheathes the second sword at his back, coming up next to the queen. “You want your wrist straight, as if you were going for a handshake. You’re not playing for the sport of touch where it’s quick and light. You want to end with a fight-ending attack.”

He overlaps his hands to hers, adjusting her wrist, giving her fingers a reassuring press. While this may seem like the oldest trick in the book for flirtatious nobles, he needs to make sure she has everything in line.

“Keep your feet shoulder width apart, knee slightly bent.”

Elsa obeys. He walks around to her front and observes. “A wrist without structure means you’ll lose your sword.”

He demonstrates by drawing and swiping his sword in one smooth motion. He whacks Elsa’s sword out of her hand, sending it clanking loudly against the cobblestone courtyard. The queen is left in shock, her eyes darting between her empty hand and the sword lying on the ground Michael retrieves it and places it back in her right hand.

“If you’re not the one attacking, you need your hands to remain loose, and mobile.” He brings his sword up into a blocking position. “In this instance, I can leave my hand open, and still maintain structure.”

He nods to the queen, who lifts her sword and delivers a strike, the sword clanking and bouncing off, Michael sidestepping out of the way as the queen’s blade comes down. she stares with wide, intrigued eyes.

“By having the hand relaxed, you allow for smooth guard transitions. Regrip it firmly when _you’re_ ready to strike.” He nods to her again.

This time when Elsa swings, Michael follows the momentum of her blade, sliding it aside and spinning his own sword so the tip is inches from Elsa’s nose. Michael relaxes, and so does she, exhaling as she counts off on her fingers. “Rotating the sword in your hand, switching grips, transmitting power from the core to the sword, targeting your opponent’s openings. Piece of cake.”

“Well, at least you seem to be a fast learner.” Michael says as he walks up to her right side. Elsa smirks, pride beaming from her as she takes her stance.

Over the next hour Michael walks her through different positions and moves, having her practice side by side, then the next hour facing one another, walking through the same moves just as his own mentors taught him.

Within the third hour, he and Elsa are rotating in a circle, their blades clinking and scraping as he walks her through footwork.

“Swordplay is like dancing—certain steps must be followed or else it will fall apart.” He says to the queen.

“Thankfully I’m light on my feet.” Elsa grins through her red cheeks and beaded forehead. It seems like she’s having fun – a little worrisome for Michael, but so long as she’s actually learning something.

By hour four, Queen Elsa finally complains about her wrist being sore, to which Michael allows a break.

The sun is starting to shift to a tangerine orange as it starts to set beyond the peaks of the mountains. While the queen asks some of the servants to bring water, Michael takes the time to maneuver his sword in swords in smooth circles, each a steel extension of his arms. He closes his eyes and attempts to listen to the beat, to the rhythm of sword playing. He cracks his eyes open occasionally to make sure no servants are in his way.

Once he hears the beat, it all comes rushing back. The courtyard and servants fading away into shadows and sunlight. His mind wanders, his muscles now controlling themselves from the instinctual memory. The sunlight warms his skin, and he almost smiles with serenity.

Training was his best outlet when he was young, his anger getting the better of him in his adolescence. The amount of hay guts he sent spewing – at least the horses had plenty of food.

The queen clears her throat, and the sounds of the courtyard com swarming back. Michael flutters his eyes open, readjusting to the twilight. He turns to find the queen holding a tray of cold water, Olaf having fallen asleep on the blanket.

She extends one glass to Michael. “Here,” she says with a smile.

Michael sets the swords aside, trying not to feel embarrassed as he takes the glass, Elsa taking the second and handing the tray off to a servant. They sip in silence for about a minute before Elsa says, “Thank you, for doing this for me.”

Not expecting this, Michael lifts his brows in surprise. “Of course.”

As they lean against the opposite side of the fountain where Olaf is sleeping, Elsa says, “I’ll try to get my sister to learn this as well.”

“Only if she wants too.”

“As you said, she _should_ learn it.”

“It won’t mean anything if she’s not willing. But if you think you can convince her . . .” Michael chugs the glass of water, surprised by how thirsty he apparently is.

“I don’t need to convince her. I’m her older sister, and her queen. She has to listen to me.” Elsa smirks, swirling her water around her glass like it is fine wine.

Michael chuckles. “And here I thought you were a benevolent ruler.”

Elsa chirps as she finishes another sip, “Before I forget, Anna’s birthday is coming up soon.” She chuckles as Michael sighs in irritation, his shoulders slouching and head hanging down. “Before you say anything, it isn’t for another month; her birthday is in June.”

“May I ask why you’re telling me this.”

Elsa lifts her chin, ever the regal queen addressing a subject. “So that you know when to attend.”

“If Anna even wants me there.” Michael mumbles.

The queen’s eyebrows furrow. “Why wouldn’t she?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but despite your warm welcome, your sister doesn’t seem to like me much.”

Elsa’s shoulders slouch, her lips pouting. “My sister has made poor judgements in the past, forgive her if she’s a little, cautious. But I can promise you, you’re invited.”

“I just don’t there to be a scene; especially if it ruins her birthday.”

“It won’t. I’ll talk to her.” The queen sounds sure of herself as she finishes her glass. “Now, I assume you’re going to be dressed up for the upcoming ball.”

Michael gives her a look that suggests he’d much rather prefer to hide in the shadows. Elsa pouts again as he sets his glass down on the lip of the fountain.

“Wouldn’t being among the dignitaries be more useful than you prancing around the ballroom in leather?”

“When I’m dressed in ‘my leather’ no one is even going to see me. And gods forbid you need to be rescued again, I don’t want them seeing my face. Could make for more trouble.”

“How about we duel for it?” Elsa wagers, smiling . . . and serious. “You win, you were your uniform; I win, and you where what I pick for you.”

Were it not for the playful mischief in the queen’s eyes, Michael would’ve outright declined. But she seems to be in a good mood, why spoil it? “Very well, _Your Majesty_.”

Elsa giggles as they pick their swords back up, facing each other. Michael feels a small bit of pride bloom as he watches the queen take position. However, he cringes when she says, “On your guard.”

“No one says that, anymore.”

But Michael readies himself as soon as he hears her boots scraped against the ground. With a turn of his arm he brings the sword into blocking position, his legs bracing for the impact as steel strikes steel. She charges again and he met her weapon, parrying with ease. Her arms quiver as they are shaken from their slumber, Michael continuing to deflect and parry.

“Good,” he says, blocking her thrust as she forces him to take a defensive stance. “Very good,” he breathes. That must mean something coming from him.

With a clang, the two swords meet, and they press each other’s blades. He s stronger, and she grunts at the force required to hold her sword against his. But, strong as he might be, the queen is quick

She withdraws and feints, her feet jabbing and flexing on the floor with birdlike grace. Caught off-guard, he only has time to deflect, his parry lost in his size.

She surges forward, her arm coming down again and again, twisting and turning, loving the smooth ache within her shoulder as the blade slammed against his. She was moving fast — fast like a dancer in a temple ritual, fast like a snake in the desert, fast like water down the side of a mountain.

He keeps up, and he allows her to advance before reclaiming the position. She tries to catch him unawares with a blow to the face, but his reflexes awaken as his elbow snaps up and deflects, slamming into her fist and forcing it down.

“Something to remember when fighting me, Your Majesty,” he pants. The sun catches in his sapphire eyes.

“Hmm?” she grunts, lunging to deflect his newest attack.

“I don’t lose.” He grins at her, and before she can comprehend the words, he snaps his foot out as fast as an asp.

The queen’s eyes widen as she spins and falls, gasping as her spine collides with cobblestone, the sword flying from her hand. Michael points his blade at her heart.

“I win,” he breathes.

She pushes herself onto her elbows. “You had to resort to tripping me. That’s hardly winning at all.”

“I’m not the one with the sword at my heart.”

The queen hisses, thumping her fist against the ground. She’s clearly unhappy with her defeat, but Michael had taught her enough of the footwork that he _assumed_ she would remember.

“You have the skills,” Michael says, “but some of your moves are still undisciplined.”

She glares up at him. “I’ve never picked up a weapon before; I only flick my fingers and people turn to ice.” she spits.

Michael chuckles at her agitation and pointed his sword at the rack, allowing her to get to her feet. “The victory is mine, nonetheless. So, I will be happily wearing my leathers, keeping to myself in the shadows while you enjoy caviar and _riveting_ conversation with your potential suitors.”

“You’ll be regretting that when you wake up and your rooms are frozen,” she mutters, picking up the sword. “Best two out of three.”

Michael smiles – truly, genuinely smiles. “That’s the spirit.”


	10. Chapter 10

Of all the sounds Anna expects to hear from the courtyard, the sound of clashing swords is a new one.

She and Kristoff went out on a date he’d been planning for a week now – and it was perfect. A nice, romantic picnic up along the foothills of Arendelle’s mountains. He’d set up a blanket underneath a weeping willow, a blanket of wild blooms surrounding them; and even after they finished their food, he played her some songs on his lute, Sven munching on some grass nearby. They shared romantic kisses at the picnic and all the way back to the castle, as giggly and bouncy as any schoolgirl.

She was in such a delightful mood; until Sven pulled into the courtyard, and there –

There he was.

His midnight black hair shines as he weaves in and out of a knot of three guards, his swords little more than steel extensions of his arms. His face almost a mask of boredom as he dodges and twirls around them.

Someone begins clapping to the right, and the four dueling figures stop; the guards panting. Anna watches as a grin spreads across Michael’s face as he beholds the source.

Elsa approaches, beaming with amazement! She's not in her usual blue gown, but rather a tunic of palest blue and loose trousers, and she clutches a sword of her own in one hand!

Her sister’s cheeks are red from the heat and sweat, some strands sticking to her gleaming forehead. She places a gentle hand on Michael’s shoulder, and the assassin says something that makes her sister laugh.

For a moment, Anna’s heart tightens at the unfiltered happiness beaming from her sister’s smile. How her eyes seem to sparkle as she watches Michael sheathe one sword at his back, coming up behind her sister to – what looks like observe her form.

He stands behind her, his arms hovering just above Elsa’s. Anna grits her teeth as Michael places his hands over Elsa’s. That is the oldest trick in the book! And the fact that Elsa’s letting it happen –!

Michael seems indifferent as he walks around to Elsa’s front once more, his head tilting to the side in observation.

The sheen of sweat illuminates his sharp cheekbones, and his blue eyes sparkle. Yes, he is truly lovely. But –

What is he here with her sister?! And with a sword!

Why does her sister even _have_ a sword?!

Kristoff is saying something, but she’s barely paying attention as she exits the wagon, stomping over to Michael and Elsa. The navy skirt of her pinafore dress flare with the lift of her legs, the heels of her matching slippers clacking loudly against the cobblestone.

“Elsa!” she calls. Elsa and Michael turn their heads in her direction, Elsa’s smile wavering; Michael just rolls his eyes and turns away, continuing to skillfully spin the sword between his hands. Anna would’ve scoffed in offense, but she’s too focused as she grabs her sister’s arm. “Might I have a word?” she says, leading her away before she could agree. When they are out of hearing distance, she demands, “What are you doing?!”

She shrugs. “Sparring?”

“And why are you sparring?”

Elsa crosses her arms. “Because he volunteered to teach me how to fight, remember?”

Anna’s mouth drops open, unable to stop her voice from yelling, “What?!” Elsa shushes her, Anna brushing her off as she continues, quieter. “Elsa, why are you doing this?”

“Why aren’t you?” Elsa suddenly counters, annoyed by the lecture. “Anna you have no powers, and our lives are in danger right now. It wouldn’t hurt to try and learn something from him.”

“But why _him_ , Elsa?! You shouldn’t be left alone with him!” Anna cries, and a pinch from Elsa keeps her voice down.

“Why? Do you really think he’s going to kill me? Why would he kill me, or you, when he has absolutely nothing to gain from it?! Not to mention I could probably freeze him before he even lifted a hand.”

“You don’t know that.”

“And you don’t know him.” Elsa growls. Michael casts a worried glance in Elsa’s direction, but her sister waves at him to resume his lesson.

“Are you serious, Elsa?! You're the queen! This is too dangerous!”

“Dangerous? — you’re just afraid of him! After he’s done nothing but prove to us that he is on our side.” Elsa hisses.

Behind her, Kristoff approaches Michael, formally introducing himself. Michael tosses the sword to his left hand, shaking Kirstoff’s with his right. The two men smile, Kristoff seeming to complement Michael’s weapon. Olaf comes waddling up to Michael’s side, a berry colored blanket wrapped around his head like a babushka.

Elsa follows Anna’s gaze, turning to find Michael beginning to walk Kristoff through the basic steps of fencing. Anna’s eyes flick to her sister, finding her smiling, her eyes sparkling as Michael hands Kristoff a sword. He looks intimidated by it, but some words from Michael have him taking it. She can barely hear what they’re saying but she hears Michael say, “You stand like this,” and takes a defensive stance.

“So, are you going to go lecture Kristoff now too, or can I get back to my lessons?” Elsa asks, Anna trying to hide her hurt at how annoyed her sister seems to sound.

Michael lunges, slapping Kristoff on the wrist with his sword. Elsa bites down her laughter. He grimaces and rubs the sore joint, but then smiles as Michael begins to circle him.

“Elsa, can’t you see where I’m coming from?”

“Of course, I do. But it’s not like you’ve taken the time to get to know him; to see him as something more than just some rogue. He’s a person, Anna.”

“You can’t possibly think you know a person you just met. I, of all people, know that!” Elsa sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m just disappointed you’re letting your guard down. You’ve been so careless with him, despite common sense.”

“And I’m disappointed that you’re acting like everyone else back when _I_ was the one being misunderstood.” Elsa suddenly seethes.

Anna can’t stop her flinch, as if her sister just struck her. Her heart sinks to the pit of her stomach, her body growing numb. She fists her hands to keep them from trembling.

“Elsa –”

“This behavior, it’s exactly what everyone else did to me when I fled Arendelle five years ago.”

“But Elsa, please –” Anna whimpers, tears starting to form in her eyes. A pain starts to tap at her right temple, memories of the coronation party starting to flood back.

Elsa made to move away, pausing at the hitch in Anna’s voice. She looks to her, her features softening, her own eyes starting to line with silver.

But still, she turns away, starting to walk back towards Michael and Kristoff.

“You can’t do this.” Anna’s nose starts to run, her vision blurring as she blinks.

Elsa stops, but without looking back, she says, “I’m the queen. I can do what I like.”


	11. Chapter 11

“He is strong.” Whispers the voice, a lilting hiss through the shadows.

“But his magic is weak.” Says another, quick to counter the first.

“It is not weak . . . but slumbering.” Chimes a third, its voice smooth and light like a spring day.

Gathered around the viewing pool – held in a large, round basin of black opal – stands four cloaked figures. Hunched over, they stare at the glassy surface of the water, filled to the brim. Through it they can see the young rogue training in the castle courtyard. His sapphire eyes glow with their own wildfire, his ebony black hair sticking to his gleaming forehead.

The pool itself is ancient – its ornate carvings long since eroded away by the hands of time, areas of the lip smoothed inward from the many others before who have rested their hands on it.

The basin sits at the epicenter of the stone rotunda, thick columns supporting the intricately carved dome above. Their painted colors have also faded into a dull mute of what they used to be; the priests and priestesses having long since vanished, though the room still vibrates from ghostly prayers carried on the winds.

A single ray of silver moonlight pierces the darkness of the room through the oculus at the top of the dome. With it, the glassy water is illuminated to show whomever they wish.

Each of their faces are concealed in the shadows of their hoods; each sparing a glance at the other. Barely a turn of their heads.

“Are we sure he is the one? The boy barely shows any signs of the healing abilities of his ancestors.” The fourth cloaked figure speaks, angling its head ever so slightly. A cat observing its prey.

“We shall test that soon,” a female voice that is both young and old, amused and soulless, purrs. “Opportunities are arising.”

A spider’s smile. Gatherings of her glossy raven-black hair spill over her pale shoulder.

“He is beginning to adore the Queen of Arendelle – whether he is aware of it, or not. We will use that.”

Approaching the front of the viewing pool is a woman who bears no cloak. Instead she wears a gown of violet purple. The skirt trails behind her, dripping along the three steps up to the pool. The fitted sleeves come to a point, delicate silver jewelry adorning her long, elegant neck.

Regal and stunning, a queen without a throne.

“Shall we continue to use the royals to our advantage?” Hisses the first figure.

Barely acknowledging their existence, the woman says, “Yes.” A long-nailed finger taps the gemstone basin. “But we must get him alone. His blood must flow so we many know if he is the one.”

She places both palms on the lip of the basin. She casts a shadowy gaze to all of the figures gathered.

Her voice drops low and raspy; the voice of a demon, not of a woman. “ _But_ do not _, kill him_.”

A rippling of the cloaks, the only sign of surprise as they step back, disturbed.

“Should any harm come to him,” she continues. “I will drink the marrow from your bones.”

A shift of the hoods – a dip of the chins.

“Be gone.”

The people disperse on quick feet. She smiles at their fear, drinks it like the finest wine. Revels in how they yearn to get away from her.

She’s grown to love having that effect on people. The only semblance of pleasure for her hollowed heart.

With her palms still on the lip, she looks down at the picture: the young rogue is gathering his weapons, sheathing them all skillfully in smooth motions. The pool continues to follow the young man as he opens the oak doors to the castle, disappearing into the halls as he turns a corner.

She extends a hand as white as moonlight over the pool. Her long nails gleaming as she taps the water as gentle as a butterfly. Deep ripples spread across the surface of the pool, distorting the image until it is gone. The surface glazed once more.

He’s a tough man to track. But finally, she has found him.

He will not escape her now.


	12. Chapter 12

Michael closes his book and sighs. What a terrible ending. Which makes him now more than half of the way through the stack that Elsa had personally sent to him.

Laying on his cloud of a bed, cradled by pillows – and this time wearing a set of comfortable night clothes – Michael stares up at the chandelier, admiring the beauty of the glittering crystals. Trying to also ignore the idea of how it could potentially crush his legs should it somehow fall when he’s sleeping.

The clock on the mantel of his fireplace reads eleven o’clock at night. After his lessons with Elsa was cut short due to the palpable tension, Michael retreated into his rooms. He ordered dinner to be delivered, still debating whether or not it was the right decision.

His intensions were to let the sisters have a private dinner together, hopefully to reconcile; but now he’s worried he only made things worse. Elsa could take it as a sign that Michael was offended from the sisters’ argument. It’s a losing situation no matter what he chooses, and the last thing Michael wants to do is get in the middle of a sisterly quarrel.

He slips his feet beneath the sheets, welcoming the cold. Even with most of his windows open, his rooms still hold a humidity that makes it quite uncomfortable. Even the silk night clothes have little breathing room. He decides to throw the shirt at the foot of the bed, settling for the trousers.

He’d been willing to teach Anna some basics of self-defense when she found him sparring with Elsa, but after her behavior . . . He fiddles with the tassel of a pillow.

She had more important things to do than to criticize him every hour, didn’t she? He hated to see Elsa being quite cruel to her sister, but . . . hadn’t she deserved it?

She’d really struck a haunting nerve within the princess at the mention of what happened five years ago. What that is, he doesn’t know – and it’s none of his business.

Michael sighs, rolling over and grabbing another book from Elsa’s stack, but when he’s lying on his back again, lets the book rest on his stomach. He sighs, blowing some loose strands of his bangs.

Did Anna trust him or hate him?

Due to the sisters’ argument, Elsa had ended their lesson early. Meanwhile it was, pleasant. rather, to finally meet the man Anna’s been courting. Kristoff.

A nice man, his reindeer an impressive and surprisingly inquisitive bull. Originally started as an ice harvester, having met Anna during that deadly winter the queen unleashed. Comes and goes to the castle as he pleases, though admittedly spending more time here the closer he gets to the princess.

Once the two women headed inside, Kristoff followed not long after the princess, having seen the expression on her face. Michael had been meaning to visit Elsa to see if she was alright, as well. The fight seeming to have some effect on her as well. Though he appreciates her standing up for him, he doesn’t want to be the reason the sisters are driven apart again.

He slides out of the bed, unsure of where to go, he walks out of his bedroom. He pauses at the threshold of the solarium. The windows’ glass turns the moonlight into silver fractals, the particles of dust casting the smallest of shadows along the wood floor.

Sighing to himself, Michael strides over to his doors, opening on silent hinges as he steps into the hall. He closes them behind him, feeling relaxed in the pockets of shadows. Though still only in his trousers, he tucks his hands in his pocket, aimlessly roaming the halls of the castle.

He debates going down to the library, but having read for the past four hours, he’d rather find something that involves less mental work – something he can drift off with.

Though he’s already charted both Anna’s and Elsa’s rooms, he hasn’t been able to navigate the full expanse of the castle. The thought of having something lenient to do makes a small smile spread his lips. He’ll have the whole castle memorized in a matter of three days if he were to walk the halls at night.

Passing by one of the triangular windows, he can see the blurred glow of Arendelle’s homes, looking like little fairy lights sprinkling along the fjord and along the foothills of the mountains. His parents would’ve loved this kingdom. Friendly community, no impending threat of the queen’s guards knocking on the doors to drag you off.

The memory makes his heart flinch, so much that he clutches his chest, leaning against the cold glass. His mother – what would she make of all this? Make of him . . .?

He can still remember her gentle touch whenever he scraped himself; her soft kisses against his skin, her stern tone offset by her laughter as he pulled a carrot from her garden too aggressively.

And his father . . . His father was just as kind of a man, stoic when needed. He would take Michael hunting during the fall season, sword fighting in the evening, wood chopping at dawn. It used to baffle Michael as a child to think that despite his father’s scarred and callus hands – almost as big as dinner plates – apart from needed discipline, they were as gentle as his mother’s.

Michael presses his forehead against the glass, the pounding in his heart becoming tighter. He remembers how little his own hand was, barely filling the palm of his father’s when they would be snuggled in front of the fireplace.

What would they think of him? Of this whole situation.

His eyes flick to his fingers, to the scar on his right hand; which have never been the same after he broke it. His mother would have his trainers’ heads for what they did to him. And then his father would probably grind their bones into dust. The thought almost makes Michael want to chuckle.

A delicate warmth slides down his cheek, a tear having escaped. Michael grips the windowsill, digging his nails in as darker memories flood forth, his foolish musings now having cracked open an old door in his mind.

He tries to steady his breathing, calm his raging heart as he starts to hear the agonized wailing of that grief-stricken boy

The boy he hasn’t since dared touch – no, hasn’t even acknowledged since that day he fled his home.

Since his mother gave him that chance to run.

He’s been keeping that boy in the dark for the longest time. Holding him in his heart as a fire, a fuel, a reason to keep moving.

He just knew if he dared to touch that young boy – the boy who got cheated out of his childhood – everything would change. Everything will fall apart.

He will fall apart.

Sighing heavily as the sounds of the castle start to come back to him, Michael blinks his eyes open. A pinching in his fingers has him looking down to realize he’s dug his nails hard enough into the wood to leave crescent shaped marks.

Shaking his hands out and popping his knuckles, Michael continues down the hall. He decides to check on the queen and princess as means of distraction – and yes, for the sake of making sure they’re actually safe.

He makes his way up the stairs, running a hand along the banister. As he reaches the top, he pauses at a sudden chill lacing through the hall. Enough that it makes him shudder, rubbing his arms as the hairs stand on end.

Looking around, his eyes widen as he exhales, his breath a white plume of smoke. As he rubs his arms, with quick feet he jogs down the hall, knowing the queen’s room is around the corner, first door on the left.

His suspicions are confirmed; as the closer he gets to the queen’s rooms, the colder the hall is starting to get. His soles of his feet are already starting to pinch, his breath getting thicker and thicker.

Turning the corner, he gasps when he finds the hallway entirely frosted.

All around him the ice crackles and pops, clawing its way up the walls with jagged periwinkle fingers. Spreading like a virus, the ice is making its way towards him. Michael curses himself for not wearing slippers. It overpowers the spring warmth, swallowing it whole as it creeps towards him.

Taking a deep breath, Michael bites back his grunts as he crosses the cold line; the frost quickly aching the soles of his feet. He skids to a stop in front of the queen’s doors. The ice feels like glass.

His blood runs as cold as the hall when he hears her whimper.

He bangs on the door, not bothering to be pleasant. “Elsa!” he calls.

The queen only continues her soft crying.

Michael tries banging again, the ice scraping against the side of his hand. “Elsa! Elsa, open up!”

He continues to push against the door, the knob refusing to turn. The layer of ice growing thicker and thicker. It layers itself like a frigid armor, determined to keep him out.

His commotion attracts attention, footsteps rushing from the end of the hall.

“What’s going on?!” he hears Anna ask in a panic. Behind her, are Kristoff and Olaf. The man and princess both in their night clothes.

Keeping his voice level, Michael says, “Something’s wrong with Elsa.”

Michael steps to the side as Anna joins him in banging on the door. “Elsa! Elsa!” she shouts.

“The door’s frozen shut.” Michael says. He looks over his shoulder to Kristoff and jerks his chin. “Kristoff, help me.”

In an instant, the couple switches places, Olaf hiding behind the skirt of Anna nightdress.

“On three.” Michael says. Together they ram their shoulders into the door, the wood splintering from the impact, the ice cracking. Bits of snow fall around them.

They hit the doors two more times; slamming into it, exploding through the locks.

The cold hits him like a slap to the face.

Michael beholds the room, steadying his feet as the ice bites deeper into his feet, into his arms.

There is ice and snow everywhere.

Before the bed, the ice lies heavily frosted – shallow gilt details of a snowflake beneath its surface. Snow gathers on the folds of the blankets, the corners of the room, the canopy above the bed . . . on everything it can cling to.

And on the bed, there lies Elsa.

Surrounded by a flurry, her fists clench the sheets until they’re white knuckled. She wriggles and writhes as if trying to fight off whatever phantom hands threatens to grab her. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her cheeks flush; but not from cold.

A stream of tears winks in the wavering moonlight as the curtains billow from the frigid winds.

She’s having a nightmare. Her head constantly turning left and right, trying to shake whatever images are worming their way into her mind.

A part of him is relived that she is not in danger.

But this growing storm . . .

Michael pushes his way through the flurry, each flake feeling like the sting of a bee as he gets closer and closer. Behind him, he can hear Anna call for her sister. She likely would’ve tried to join Michael, but Kristoff holds her back. Michael shields his eyes, doing his best to keep straight as the snowflakes stick to his lashes. His ears positively ache, his hands already growing stiff.

When he reaches the eye of the queen’s storm, the wind calms, but the narrow funnel only amplifies the queen’s petrified sobs. He blinks away the flakes, wiping his arms and taking deep, even breaths as he approaches the queen’s bedside.

She hasn’t faltered her grip on the sheets, the fabrics now frozen in place. Her sobbing makes his heart ache. He leans on the edge, grabbing the queen’s shoulders. He pats her cheeks as he attempts to shout over the howling wind.

“Elsa! Elsa!”

Her writhing only worsens, as if she had just been burned. Her legs start to kick, only restrained by the stiff sheets.

“Elsa, wake up!”

He shakes her shoulders now, the wind whippings his hair about in a black halo. It sears against his skin, making him squint now. The wind is starting to amplify his heartbeat beneath his skin. Each pulse sends pain rippling through his limbs.

Still he continues to be gentle, patting the queen’s cheek in an attempt to wake her. Anna’s cries for her sister are lost within the howl of the flurry.

He feels some spark of hope as he watches the queen’s eyes begin to flutter open, eyes rolled up in her head. But the grip of deep slumber still pulls her down as they shut once more.

Michael grits his teeth as he hears the wood of the bedframe start to pop. It’ll shatter soon . . . and then who knows what next.

The floor becomes so cold that he has to lift his other leg up, forced to adjust on the bed. He sighs, forcing himself to straddle the queen, still gripping her shoulders.

He shakes her shoulders once more. “Elsa, wake up! It’s me, Michael!”

His heart nearly breaks at the tortuous scream that erupts from the queen’s mouth.

She begins to flail, and when it registers that her hips are pinned, her eyes open wide, but she doesn’t see him.

No, her eyes are far-seeing – still trapped in whatever hell conjured in her mind. Her pupils have shrunk in the widespread of her cerulean eyes. He attempts to grab her wrists, but it only frightens her more. She wrenches herself free, her hand flailing through the air to scratch across his cheek. Michael barely feels the pain, only the pins prickling beneath his skin from her touch, his face having grown numb.

He screams her name again as he grabs her shoulders, and for a moment, pride goes through him as she immediately tries to drive her fists up into his elbows – a maneuver he taught her during their self-defense lessons.

He manages to snap his arms back before she could, but when he tries again, she’s ready and grips his forearms.

Michael can’t stop his scream that erupts from his throat as Elsa’s magic rips its way into his skin. Into every muscle and every vain. Agony cleaves its way into his hands, into his forearms, into his mind as the pain splinters his vision into flashing light.

It’s enough to make him lightheaded, loosening his grip on her shoulders. Thankfully she releases him as quickly as he does.

Left with no other choice, Michael whispers an apology as he raises his hand.

The sound of his hand cracking across her cheek deafens the storm around him.

“ _ELSA_!”

The queen gasps, inhaling deeply as her eyes shoot open once more.

This time they look more alert than before. She clutches her chest, her hands shaking.

“Elsa, wake up.” Michael croaks as he reaches out to touch her. His voice is like sandpaper.

She yelps, the sound no difference than a frightened lamb. This time he moves off her as her legs start to thrash again.

“Elsa, it’s me. It’s me.” He tries again, but Elsa shrieks and fumbles within the tangle of sheets, frantically scooching herself back further until she collides with the headboard.

As if by the snap of some phantom hand, the storm stops. The snowflakes freeze in the air, the ice and frost settling over the room.

He doesn’t look to the horrified face of the princess. Kristoff still holding her back. Whatever he sees on Michael’s arms, Anna sees it too after following his gaze when he refuses to let her go.

Even with the biting cold gone, his arm is still left numb with a strange sensation of pruning without actually being wet.

He doesn’t give it a thought, yet.

Michael carefully approaches Elsa as the queen’s breathing becomes shallow. Other than a few strands out of place, her hair is left almost untouched. Her braid falls over her shoulder, all the while he tries to keep his voice calm and motion gentle gestures towards her.

“You were dreaming, Elsa.” Michael softly speaks. “You’re okay. You’re in Arendelle. You’re in the castle, with me, Olaf, Anna and Kristoff.”

Elsa adjusts her breathing, but her face is growing paler as she continues to shake. Thirsty for air to fill her lungs, despite her long sporadic inhales, she doesn’t seem to be making any headway. Michael speaks her name again, but she curves her spine inward.

In a voice barely audible, she groans, “Michael, I – I can’t -”

The queen stutters, her lip quivering as she coils her arms around her knees. With her chin almost touching her chest, she starts to cough, and Michael fears she is going to be sick.

Michael carefully crawls towards the queen. Tentatively he manages to get the queen to lift her chin, cradling her face in both his hands as if it were a robin’s egg. Elsa uncurls slightly and Michael is greeted with the queen’s fear-stricken eyes. The shortness to her breath unnerves him.

“You were dreaming.” He soothes, willing his eyes to not shed the tears that the pain tries to draw from him.

She doesn’t jerk from him, which is a good sign. Michael carefully removes one hand and tries and place it her shoulder once more. He bites back the pain in his left hand as he can feel the frozen skin stretch.

Elsa’s breathing is starting to slow, her hands slowly reaching up to touch Michael’s. She unfurls from herself, sitting up slightly and leaning forward, body seeking another like a flower to the sun.

Her lips begin to quiver again, and underneath the shuddering sobs, Michael can see she’s trying to find words. Michael makes the attempt to position himself closer, but even the slightest pressure on his hands has him fighting a yelp of pain. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood.

The queen spares him – crawling to him near frantically to get into his arms, to lay her head against his chest.

And to unleash the sobs of fear and relief as she holds him like a life raft in a stormy sea. If he were wearing a shirt, she probably would’ve fisted it until she was white-knuckled. The thin straps of her long, sunset nightgown fall off her shoulders, her back soaked in sweat despite the still-bitter room.

He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around the trembling queen as she burrows her head into his chest. He can feel the warmth of her tears against his skin. She moves herself even closer, as if she can burrow into his heart and disappear. He wraps one arm around her shoulder, holding her closer, while the other gently strokes her hair.

“You’re safe.” Michael speaks with calming reassurance. “You’re safe. Try and breathe with me.”

He purposely exaggerates the movement of his chest so Elsa can feel the motion beneath her.

But she isn’t listening.

Her body shakes as Michael rests his chin atop her head. Her sobs are deprived of emotion because instinct has commandeered, hammering out any other thoughts other than those of human survival and the pursuit of oxygen.

“Shhhh,” Michael coos. As he strokes her hair, he can feel her forehead is moist with sweat.

Michael tries to dry her forehead by patting it with the back of his hand. He jolts in surprise as an overly hot palm clutches at his forearm. He stops petting her head to offer her a hand to hold. She brings it to her chest where he can feel the rapid beat of her heart. The bond they create lies over her chest in a tangle of sweaty palms and bruising impressions of fingertips.

“I’ve got you.” Michael whispers into her ear. By now the pain has disappeared.

And it unnerves him greatly.

But just like she did for him, he places a soft kiss just above her ear.

He feels the pressure of her shoulder as she presses further into his chest, but she’s still shaking.

The longest four minutes of his life span out at the astounding display of Elsa’s chest and lungs gradually slowing to someone partaking in a brisk walk. Michael feels like he’s run a marathon with a pack of wolves on his tail in the blistering heat of summer. His exhaustion is evident, so he can’t imagine what Elsa is experiencing.

He gently rocks her as her pulse slows beneath his critical observation. Elsa is treated to kind whispered promises of her ensured safety and how Michael will hold her for as long as she needs him to.

He is convinced he’s ushered her to sleep, until he hears her drag a ragged breath and mumble something on the exhale. “I’m sorry.” she weeps.

Michael softly shushes her. “It’s fine. You’re fine.” he assures, stroking her hair again with his right arm that’s about her shoulders. She still keeps his left hand pressed against his chest, entangled in her fingers.

He angles his head down to peek at her and finds the queen with her head turned in his direction. Michael watches as Elsa’s pupils dilate back and forth with every odd breath. She blinks rapidly before turning her head away and leaning back into his chest. Her head nestles in the crook of his neck.

She blinks quick and suddenly gasps as she finally notices her sister and Kristoff standing by the shattered doors. Michael looks to them, too.

Both of their eyes are gleaming with filled tears, Kristoff having loosened his hold on Anna.

Elsa lifts her arm and extends a trembling hand towards the princess.

With a choked whimper that pinches Michael’s chest, she says her sister’s name.

Like a bat out of hell, Anna rushes over to the bed, taking her sister’s hand. Michael is released as the sisters embrace one another, exchanging sobs as Anna crawls onto the bed. She attempts to console her anxious sister; who is now mumbling apologies between breathes.

Anna assures her everything is fine through her own choked sobs. Slinking his way off the bed, Michael breathes as his hands begin to faintly pulse. He spares a nod to Kristoff as they pass one another.

Elsa is still sobbing as he steps over the threshold and into the hallway beyond. Once he turns the corner, certain he is out of hearing range, Michael exhales, unable to stop the grunt of pain as he tries to flex his fingers.

Bringing them forward, he attempts to suppress his growing panic as he confirms he’s lost feeling in both of his forearms. In the warm, buttery glow of the scones and candles, Michael can see the skin has turned bluish-grey, a thin white layer starting to crawl its way over.

Michael doesn’t dare look at his feet. If they’re in worse condition than his hands, he’ll lose all sense of focus.

He tries to keep his attention on getting to the servants’ quarters. He knows where the healer will be. He just needs to make it to her.

Though he heavily debates going to his rooms and fetching his slippers, it’ll only waste more time and cause more possible damage. It’s a horrible idea to walk on frostbitten feet. It’s not worth the risk.

He does, however, slip a table runner out from underneath a vase of buttercups to wrap around his hands. Trying to rewarm the area is the best he can muster.

Even so, after turning another corner, Michael breaks into a full sprint towards the stairs, hopping and sliding down the railing. He manages to keep his balance until he has to try and hop without the aid of his hands.

His landing is a bit rough, not that he can feel it – but he does stumble to one knee. Pushing himself up, Michael forces himself to keep running, flexing his fingers and fisting his hands beneath the silk runner.

Still no feeling.

Windows slip by in his peripheral vision, briefly revealing the oxford blue night sky. The blanket of stars seems to shine brighter against the velvet backdrop, leaving pale silver streams as they rush by his vision. He passes by a grandfather clock in the hall, its hands perfectly aligned against the midnight hour. The servants won’t be up for another six hours, so he has to be loud.

He spots a door tucked in an alcove and forces himself to pick up speed. He takes a deep breath as he rams his shoulder into the door, breaking through the tumbler.

Hopefully this far down – now having reached the sublevels of the castle – the sisters won’t hear him from the third floor. And that his commotion has awoken someone down here.

Michael counts the steps, his heart near racing – but not from the cardio. A torch creeps up every fifth step, and when he reaches the end, he skids to a stop to prevent himself from crashing into a servant woman. She gives a pitched yelp that rings his ears in the enclosed tunnel. She’s still wearing her nightgown, two fingers looped around the handle of a brass candle holder. The flame trembles with her hand as she holds it aloft towards Michael, illuminating her chocolate brown eyes.

“Help me . . .” Michael begs. His voice sounds as coarse as Elsa’s frost.

She looks down at his rummaging ball of fabric, loosening to reveal his hands.

Her gasp mirrors his horrified exhale as they gaze at his blackening fingertips. The color lightening to a pale grey as it drips down to his knuckles.

In an instant her drowsiness is gone, replaced by an unwavering professionalism as she extends a dainty hand. “Come with me, quickly.”

She takes the silk runner, rewrapping it with quick and deft hands before she and Michael are jogging further down the hall. At the first door that comes up on their right, the servant shoves open the door, shouting at whoever’s inside to _Get Up_! He thinks he hears the name: Mai.

There’s a small fire brewing in the hearth along the right wall. Being down here, Michael can understand having its use. He attempts to focus on the cracking of the logs while sheets snap and rustle to his left. The servant woman he met in the hall brings over a wooden chair for him to sit on. As Michael leans back, more than relieved to have his weight off his feet, she then brings over a small stool to prop his feet atop.

The second servant woman, Mai, slips on a tunic over her nightgown before tying an olive-green apron over it. She ties her hair back into a simple braid, as does the first woman as she walks over towards a line of cabinets. Both women make their way over to a wash basin where they both clean their hands with trained thoroughness.

In the light of the fireplace and two sconces they ignite on the walls, Michael can see Mai’s hair is mouse-brown, the other whom he met in the hall is more honey-gold. He almost feels the need to look away, as he usually sees the female servants with cotton caps covering their hair. In fact, most of the female servants were covered from neck to toe. They usually wear layered cotton clothing and caps and gloves even in the summer.

However, they don’t seem too bothered by their exposure – especially Mai. They’ve interrupted her sleep, and yet she moves with keen eyes and quick feet, uncaring of her bare feet slapping the stone floor.

The servant with honey-gold hair brings over a small wooden box with holes in the top. She strides towards the fireplace, filling a small ceramic brazier with hot coals. Mai goes over to the hearth as well, placing a large teapot along a spit and setting it over the fire.

As the first servant woman comes over with the box and brazier, Michael attempts to clear his throat before asking, “Your name?”

Those chocolate brown eyes look up to him through a fan of dark lashes. “Ida.” she gives a dip of her chin. She kneels in front of him and sets the brazier inside the wooden box before motioning Michael to lift his feet.

He does, and she guides him to rest his feet atop the box. She sends the stool skidding to the side with a punt of her foot. His own heart drops at the sight of his feet already having puss-filled blisters, his toes beginning to turn black. But Ida’s face doesn’t waver; a professionally trained mask that learned to endure the most severe and truly disgusting. 

“A footwarmer.” Ida says as she stands and wipes her on her apron he didn’t see her adorn.

“Innovative.” Michael adds, but there is no humor to his tone. Ida moves to remove the scarf from his hands.

“They didn’t have these in your kingdom?” she asks, attempting to make conversation as means of distraction.

“If they did it was more than likely for the nobles. I used to just sit in front of our fireplace.”

She gives a delicate hum in response, walking out of his sight. Behind him, he hears bottles clinking and liquids being poured. 

He can’t stop staring at his feet, his own nerves beginning to falter. He could probably stick his feet directly into the fire and not feel the burn. With a tight swallow, he says, “I’ve never seen frostbite progress this quickly.”

“Did something happen with Her Majesty?” Mai asks without looking back. There is no judgment, no caution – merely a diagnosis.

Michael leans back in the chair, the wood creaking. “She was dreaming, and when I tried to wake her, I ended up starling her. She inadvertently used her powers on me.”

Ida comes back around his right, holding a small cup in her hand. With the minimal lighting, he can’t see the color, but the smell is bitter – like stale ginger. “Drink it,” she orders.

Though there is no reason to question healers, Michael still asks, “Why?”

“We’re going to be putting your hands and feet in some warm water. And once they start to thaw, the pain will be intense. This will help with that.”

On cue, the kettle over the fire begins to whistle. Michael nods, and Ida readies one hand behind his head, the other smoothly tipping the cup to his lips. He nearly spits it out from the bitter taste – like stale ginger with too much lemon and lime. But he manages to keep his composure, chugging the whole cup as Mai begins to pour the hot water into the tub.

As Michael smacks his lips, he holds in a belch that would lead to a retch, which would lead to him vomiting back up the drink. He can’t stop the shudder that rattles his shoulders.

Ida and Mai slowly push the tub over to him, Ida removing the footwarmer. As Mai helps set up his feet, Ida uses the still hot brazier to warm a bowl of water.

Michael looks to the steaming tub, hesitant, but Mai’s gestures and expertise have him placing his feet into the tub.

Where the water would burn and singe some people, it barely registers in his feet. Michael swallows, his stomach rolling over itself. Mai runs over to her bed tucked in the left corner, fetching one of her own blankets. Michael wants to protest, but she’s already wrapping it around him, folding it around his neck to make a collar and tucking it in the crooks of his elbows. The smell of cinnamon and peppermint fill his nose.

Ida walks over with the bowl of water, steam curling off its surface. Mai drapes a towel over his lap before Ida gently sets it down, ushering his hands into the water.

“We’ll get you some food and water. To help keep the restore heat and body energy.” Ida states, her honey-gold braid slipping over her shoulder. “Where is Her Majesty?”

“She was in her rooms with Princess Anna, and Kristoff. Her sister was consoling her when I left.” Michael tries not to feel unnerved as his words begin to slur. He can’t tell if it’s from the frostbite, or from the tonic Ida made him drink.

Both women nod, and Ida jerks her chin towards Mai. The woman leaves without another word. Meanwhile Ida soaks a towel in second bowl of hot water, wringing it out and placing it over Michael’s forearms. With skilled fingers, she knots both ends under his wrists.

With a blanket and both his hands and feet in hot water, the drowsiness continues to pull Michael down into its depth. Taking a deep breath and tunneling his focus, Michael asks Ida, “Where is she going?”

Without missing a step in her work, Ira answers. “She’s going to inform Her Majesty of your condition. Then we’re going to work on you before sending you to your rooms.”

“What can I do to help?” To his own ears he sounds like a drunk. He wants to feel uneasy; he wants to stay awake, but the heaviness of sleep is pressing more on his shoulders. Were it not for that tonic, the pain would’ve definitely snapped him awake – and he’d be a bigger hassle to the women.

“You can relax.” Ida says. He can hear the smile on her lips as her hands gently drift across his shoulders.

Michael has enough sense to recognize when he’s been drugged. He also has enough sense to remind himself that he’s in Arendelle’s castle; with servants undoubtably don’t have any ill will or intention.

Ida continues to talk. “Mai went to get you a wheelchair. Once we’re finished, we’re going to bring you back to your rooms. While it would be beneficial to have you stay by us to monitor you” – she gives a delicate giggle – “we don’t exactly have the space.”

Losing all sense to the drug, Michael could barely nod as Ida begins to lift his right foot out of the water.

He only registers the door behind him opening and the sound of squeaking wheels before finally succumbing to the drugs.


	13. Chapter 13

It had started with a horrific nightmare brought upon by her dispute with Anna. She dreamt she was running through the snowstorm five years ago, when she threw Arendelle into an eternal winter. She was running through the winds and the mist, her usual ice dress having bene replaced by her coronation dress. The collar of the cape felt suffocating, near choking her as the wind tugged on it.

She was running across the fjords; to where, she didn’t know. But she felt this dark presence coming after her, hiding in the vicious flurry of her own conjuring.

Within the winds she could hear her name being called. It had no being – it was never human.

It wounded young and old, laced with a deadly, predatory calm.

It was ancient . . . and it was coming for her.

Thunder rolled above her. She spun in a circle, and despite the cascade of noise, she could not sense so much as the slightest movement in any direction.

Elsa felt her throat constrict and her chest tighten. Her heartbeat sped to triple time. Her palms, cold and sweaty, tightened into fists.

Out of the corner of one eye, she thought she saw the edge of a dark something. Then there was another to her left. Figures, tall and long, rushed through the howling veils of snow on either side of her. Their movements too fast. _Impossibly_ fast.

As she sped up, so did the dappled forms.

They seemed to multiply as, out of her periphery, she spotted yet another. The one glided away from the others to rush along beside her. It moved _with_ the flurry of snow, a shadow in the white veil it was conjured from – a rippling form.

Elsa risked a quick glance, head-on, but saw nothing, only white and swirling snow and chaos. But that was impossible!

Then she felt one of the forms grab her shoulders.

"Go away!" she screamed.

She couldn't outrun them, whatever or whoever they were. She couldn't gain even the slightest bit of distance, and already a stitch the size of a small ball had begun to knot itself in her side. She blocked out the pain, pushing through the it.

Run.

Run.

 _Run_!

The snowstorm bellowed her name again, a hollow scream that echoed around her. Elsa tried to cry for help, but couldn't find the breath, able only to choke out a low sob.

Something grips her shoulders again, and this time she could feel the hands as she whirled to imbed her ice into the bastards.

She could hear a scream – and for a moment, a sense of accomplishment eased her. But it was brief.

Something compels her to look down, and beneath her feet the ice was clear to peer into the dark water below.

Elsa screams when a hand presses up against the ice, following it was the petrified face of her sister.

Elsa bellowed for Anna, the scream tearing at her throat until it was raw. She raked at the ice until her nails cracked, lines of blood smearing in the snow.

She didn’t care.

She kept yelling, clawing for her sister. But the ice refused to give.

Elsa sobbed as she watched her sister began to convulse.

Her eyes rolled up into her head, her lips started to turn blue.

Elsa screams as Anna’s hand falls away from the ice, sinking into the darkened depth below.

Pain crackles across her cheek and suddenly –

“ _ELSA_!”

Her eyes shot open, and panic seized her as the flurry of her nightmare had made its way into her bedroom. Until –

“Elsa, wake up.”

His voice . . .

As if he had pulled a string in her heart, the storm stopped.

“You were dreaming. You’re in Arendelle.”

She doesn’t remember much after that; just the feeling of having his arms around her, resting her head in the crook of his neck.

And she was shaking.

Even when he had managed to calm her down, she nearly panicked again when he left.

She’s never felt so cold until his warmth was gone.

Though she was more than relieved to see Anna safe, though she wanted nothing more than to hold her sister for a number of hours, she wanted Michael.

She _needed_ Michael.

Which is why now, after nearly thirty minutes of consoling from Anna, and another twenty ensuring her sister that she will be fine, Elsa is near jogging down the halls to find him. Olaf is at side her, or at least attempting to be, the poor snowman. With Elsa’s jog slowly turning into a run, his little snow feet can barely match the stride.

With the skirts of her nightdress fisted in one hand, Elsa’s feet are carrying her through the halls.

Kristoff had explained what happened, to the best of his abilities: Elsa had been dreaming, her powers running rampant in her rooms. Michael had been the first to find her, his banging alerting him and Anna. After they had broken into Elsa’s room, Michael went in first to try and wake her up. The thick snowy winds kept them from seeing anything, Kristoff holding Anna back despite her protests.

Then they heard Michael scream.

It was something they had _never_ expected to hear from the rogue, Kristoff said. Then the storm just, stopped. The snow and ice had stayed, the snowflakes simply suspending in the air. After Anna had soothed her, Elsa had managed to thaw her room; rather uncaring that the sheets and carpet were left soaked due to her distraction of wanting to find Michael.

Kristoff said he didn’t know where Michael went after letting Anna hold Elsa, so the queen can only go with the most obvious guess being the servants. She knew both Anna and Kristoff were hiding something – Kristoff had an easy tell when he was lying.

They knew something bad had happened to him.

And that _she_ did it.

She chokes on a sob that clutches her throat, Olaf spouting off some nonsense between breaths. Elsa turns the corner, ready to fly down the stairs on an ice ramp.

Until she almost crashes into one of the servant women.

Both women yelp, Elsa near careening into the poor woman as she was about to turn the corner as well. Olaf had resorted to sliding along the wood to keep up with Elsa; as a result, with Elsa’s dead stop, he ends up sliding past the two women – and into the hall table.

Elsa lets out a sigh of relief, clutching a hand to her chest. “Oh Ida, I’m so sorry.” Elsa attempts to catch her breath. “What are you doing here?”

Ida wipes her hands on her apron before curtsying. “I actually came looking for you, Your Majesty.”

Elsa is about to ask why, until her eyes flick to Ida’s attire. She’s dressed in her homespun nightgown, her apron thrown atop it as if she had been summoned while sleeping. Then Elsa notices her red cheeks and gleaming forehead. Olaf walks up behind her, a little more than jumbled by his collision.

Elsa can feel her heart start to race, her head still rather light from gathering her nerves. “Where is he?”

“We just brought him back to his rooms.” Ida says with a level tone. Elsa is about to step around the woman, until she holds out her arms to stop her, matching her step. “And I was coming to inform you that, it’s probably best if you just let him sleep.”

 _Because you hurt him_ , she tells herself.

Even if it was unintentional, even if she knows he’ll say it’s alright, she _needs_ to see him. Elsa knew Ida wasn’t trying to stop her out of fear of her, but because she doesn’t want Elsa to see him like that.

To see what she had done to him. And have her suffer through another breakdown through guilt.

“Please, Ida. I need to see him.”

“Your Majesty, I must advise against this.” Ida still holds out her hands to the queen, as if it can hold her in place.

Elsa pauses, about ready to scream. She steps back, raking her fingers through her hair with a heavy sigh. She looks to Ida, stepping up to her. “What happened?”

Ida folds her lips in, lacing her fingers together at her front.

“Ida.” Elsa demands, forcing herself into her queen persona. She never liked to use her authority like this, but she’s close to just shoving the handmaiden out of her way.

With a deep breath, Ida says, “He came to us looking exhausted. His feet and hands and forearms were all frostbitten. Particularly his forearms.”

The thought makes Elsa’s body grow numb, her heart beginning to race again despite the feeling of it dropping down into her stomach.

“We did what we could; his feet weren’t even that bad. They’ll recover fine, but . . . we don’t know what to do for, everything else.”

The dread nearly makes the queen collapse to the floor. She manages to catch herself, pressing her back to the wall and bracing her feet. Her shaking must’ve been apparent because Ida places a gentle hand on her shoulder. Elsa resists the urge to shy away from it.

She’d given him deep frostbite.

Elsa places a hand over her mouth.

Deep frost bite was the most severe case – where amputation is more than likely.

He could lose his hands . . . because of _her_.

Gods, he will never forgive her for this. There must be some other way.

There has to be something that can save him.

Elsa looks to Ida. “Let me see him, please.”

“Your Majesty –”

“Ida, I need to see him. Maybe I can help him.”

None of the servants of the castle had any magic, let alone the knowledge of how to heal someone from it. they could only work with what they knew – and apparently Michael’s condition is one that they know will require amputation.

No. she can’t let that happen. She has to try and think of _something_. _Anything_.

“Your Majesty, I highly recommend –”

Elsa fists her hands. “I am your Queen!” she suddenly spits. “You obey _my_ requests. And I request to see Michael this instant!” The outburst surprises Ida, her eyes widening and placing a hand on her chest. She probably would’ve complied anyway, but Elsa’s urgency has her orders faltering as she whimpers, “Please.”

Ida’s shoulders slouch and she turns and motions Elsa to follow. The queen knew the way to Michael’s rooms, so once Ida was willing to let her in, she speeds past the woman and runs.

By memory her feet carry her to his rooms. To _him_.

His doors come up quicker than normal, Elsa having enough sense to grip and twist the knob before swinging the doors open. Another servant woman sitting at Michael’s beside jumps at the sudden intrusion, quick to jump to her feet and bow upon realization.

She steps out of Elsa’s way as the queen heads straight for the bed.

And to the seeping body atop it.

They’ve tucked him under the sheets, folding back the comforter. The blanket stops in the middle of his abdomen, his head propped on a pillow. They’ve only lit a few candelabras that are on his nightstands as dawn is little more than a couple hours away.

Elsa can’t stop a heavy sigh, or the stinging in her eyes as she notices his hands.

His fingertips have turned black and bits of skin are already starting to peel, revealing coagulated blood and puss-filled blisters. Black dots sprinkle across the back of his hand, varying from knuckles to wrist; his skin a canvas for them. It almost looks as though they are in a state of decay.

Elsa notices a wheelchair parked at the foot of the bed. She suddenly finds herself quietly applauding the women for hauling Michael up here. It couldn’t have been an easy feat considering his size and build. She’ll have to make sure these two women receive an admirable reward for not only helping him, but also getting him up to his rooms.

“We were able to save his feet,” the servant woman says with a bow. “but we still recommend he stay in bed.”

Not even looking at her, Elsa asks, “For how long?”

The woman shrugs in her periphery. “At least a week.”

Elsa bites her lip. The ball is scheduled within that time. She would love for Michael to be there, but she won’t force him to. Her eyes flick to the scar along the back of his right hand. Elsa sits herself on the edge of the bed, tucking one leg underneath.

Ida finally comes in, her cheeks more distinct in color from chasing after the queen. Her honey-gold braid looks a little disheveled. It looks like she also might’ve attempted to smooth it down before entering. The second servant woman bows again, stepping aside to let her near.

“We gave him some sedatives to help with the pain, as well as some tonics and tea to help fight infection.” Her voice lowers with her head. “I’m not sure what else we can do.”

Because once Michael had told them that Elsa had attacked him – even if she was dreaming – they already knew that there was no saving him. It’s a miracle, Elsa suppose, that they were even able to save his feet.

Olaf walks up next to Ida as Elsa, grabbing a section of her skirt. The little snowman seems to have recovered, having rearranged himself back to normal. Elsa reaches out a shaking hand to move some of his hair off of Michael’s forehead. The moonlight casts lovely shadows on the elegant panes of his face, softened into handsomeness by sleep. He takes long and even breaths, the muscles of his chest expanding and contrasting.

“Thank you, for your hard work. It’s greatly appreciated.” Elsa says, but her voice sounds hollow; distant even to her own ears. She forces herself to look at the servants. “I’d like to take care of him from here. Or watch over him, if everything it finished.”

“We did what we could. Now all we can do is let the tonics and the body do what they can.” Ida instructs. “He may be thirsty when he wakes up. And we encourage that he eats when he’s awake too.”

Elsa nods despite the nervousness tightening in her stomach. Gods, what is she to do when he’s hungry? She doubts he will allow her to spoon-feed him like an invalid.

“Will he have _any_ mobility of his hands?” Elsa asks. She scoots herself closer to trace her fingers along his jaw. Michael doesn’t so much as twitch.

Ida’s shrugs her shoulders. “As I said, My Queen, we did what we could. We’ll have to see how he is tomorrow.”

“Will any of this” – Elsa gestures to Michael’s black fingertips and peeling skin – “go away?”

Another shrug of Ida’s shoulders. Elsa sighs in aggravation. Then she feels a tug on her skirt. The queen looks down to Olaf. “Elsa, maybe _you_ can reverse it.” Elsa ponders for a moment before her eyes flick back to the snowman. “It was your powers that froze his arms, maybe they can unfreeze it.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple, Olaf.”

“Indeed.” Ida chimes. “We’ve already rewarmed his hands and feet to the best of our abilities. If there’s anything left in there it would be dangerously close to the nerves and tissue.”

Disheartened, Elsa looks to the snowman again. “I’m sorry, Olaf.”

“Isn’t it worth a try, though?” Olaf asks. “You thawed out Arendelle, a couple of limbs shouldn’t be that bad.”

“It’s a lot more complicated then that, Olaf. I could end up hurting him more.” Elsa denies, looking down at her open palms. So smooth and pale and with perfectly manicured nails compared to Michael’s.

Olaf’s stick hand gently grasps Elsa’s pinky, guiding it down to him. “But, he did so much for you. He really helped you.” He cradles her hand as though it were a robin’s egg. “Wouldn’t it be fair, if you did the same for him?”

Elsa blinks, Olaf’s words sinking in. Yes, she did thaw Arendelle. And while this is more intricate than just lifting snow off of inanimate buildings, it is still _her_ magic.

And _she_ controls it.

Elsa looks to Olaf and smiles tenderly at the snowman. Ida must see her face, because she sharply says, “Your Majesty, I must advise against this.”

“I’ll take it into consideration.” Elsa states she stands, tuning to take Michael’s hands.

“You don’t what you’re –!”

“I have to try!” Elsa turns to Ida snarling. The servant woman takes a step back, balking with her hand on her chest, mouth slightly agape. “I’m _going_ to try.”

Ida complies; but not before asking Elsa a question that the queen tunes out. she looks down at hers and Michael’s hands. Indeed, her hands looked immensely different compared to his. Yet, even as her fingers bump over the open scabs, his blood smearing her fingertips, Elsa does not tremble.

Gods, even with frostbite, his hands still feel warmer than hers.

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

Within the blackness of her eyes, she tries to picture Michael’s hands. A bright turquoise tether glides through the darkness. As it goes out further, she can suddenly see snowflakes gathered in small huddles, spreading sparsely here and there. Then they begin to take shape in the form of Michael’s hands and forearms. It unnerves her at how clear the outline appears, more of the color filling and varying in opacity. She really dug deep when she was fighting Michael from the nightmare.

A well beneath her stomach starts to grow warm, spreading throughout her body until she feels the tether connect to her heart. The attachment causes her to gasp.

An anchor. Someplace she can spool it back in at the snap of a thought.

Elsa takes a deep breath, the glow of the thread matching her slow inhale. As she exhales, more snowflakes begin to glow, forming the shape of his hands. Elsa delicately traces her hand over Michael’s fingers. Casting the line out like a fisherman, the snowflakes are immediately drawn to it. They drift to the tether like a swelling tide; Elsa being careful of her breathing.

She tries to remain calm as she cleans the sparkling bits of turquoise from Michael’s hands and forearms. The outline slowly starts to fade, like a broom sweeping away dust.

Elsa allows a small smile to stretch her lips as the last few of the flakes are pulled into the tether. She can only hope his hands look as clean on the outside as the inside. She makes sure to pick up every last flake from his tissue, from his veins and skin and muscle.

When the outline of his hands and arms are gone, and all she can see is blackness, Elsa is about to retreat the thread of her power, when something begins to glow.

It’s not bright – the luminosity as soft as twilight sky. It flickers deeper within the darkness.

Not smothered, just, further in. Puzzled, Elsa gasps as the thread begins to slide towards it. Her own hand slides up Michael’s arm, her eyes still closed.

She wonders where the thread could be guiding her, but she doesn’t hesitate as she moves deeper into the darkness.

It is not cold, or entrapping; it is not the kind of darkness that holds nothingness.

As her magic approaches, Elsa sees the light is . . . flickering. Not like the wick of a dying candle flame, but . . .

A heartbeat.

Her magic has found its way to his heart.

Elsa suddenly stiffens with panic, ready to yank the thread back as to not hurt him, but that light flickers again. This time it grows brighter before settling back down.

Tentatively, Elsa inches her magic closer, the light starting to look eager. It begins to dance – dilating dim and bright, ribbons of orange floating about.

To welcome her.

And when the ribbon touches her icy thread, Elsa huffs at the shiver that runs down her spine.

Magic.

Michael had magic. He had mentioned how some skilled healers had married into the family, and how he claimed he retained little of their traits.

And yet here it is – pure and untouched. Hidden.

No, not hidden but . . . slumbering.

Michael wouldn’t have lied to her about. He probably doesn’t even know he has it. But something about this magic feels, odd. Not dangerous, just – it has no shape. She doesn’t recognize it like her ice.

It is ancient. Something far older and far more powerful.

Elsa’s excitement has her taking shallow breaths. The ancient power reaches out a hand and touches her magic – her ice. She shudders as she feels it ripple through her again. A gentle caress.

And she feels it.

That great sleeping, ancient beast opens an eye. It seems to sense her watching. Sense her there.

She feels it stir — like it will lunge for her.

Suddenly the light shifts from sunset orange, to a wholly gold. Its radiance grows to a blinding light. Dread coils in Elsa’s stomach. Though it’s not menacing, it is overly excited by her discovery. By its awakening.

Elsa takes a sharp breath and runs. She tries to keep her spool of magic straight as she sprints out.

That monstrous force swells behind her, a golden wave rising up. It is eager to fill the void, to cast out the darkness. She can still feel its warmth behind her as she yanks her magic back.

With a gasp, Elsa opens her eyes, releasing Michael’s hand. She stumbles back a couple of steps, Ida and Olaf quick to gather her.

“Are you alright, Your Majesty?” Ida asks.

Elsa nods, sparing a quick nod of thanks to Olaf. She approaches Michael’s bed again; the candles having been blown out. She takes his hand once more, and chokes on a sob of relief as tears fill her eyes.

Gone were the black spots and fingertips; peeling skin had healed over and though his scars were still there, she had healed all of the coagulated scabs and puss blusters. Ida comes up behind her right shoulder, mouth falling open and eyes widening in shock. Olaf tugs at Elsa’s skirt and she carefully brings his hand down to show the little snowman.

Olaf bounces from foot to foot, the snowflakes of his little cloud winking in the moonlight. “You did it!” he exclaims with jubilance.

Neither she nor Ida have the heart to quiet him; also because the drugs have Michael so deeply asleep that a herd of bulls couldn’t wake him. So, Elsa allows herself to revel in the accomplishment. Choked between sobbing and laughing, she can’t stop running her fingers along his hands, along his forearms.

A tap on her shoulder has Elsa stepping aside to let Ida inspect Michael. Her eyes remain wide as she looks over his newly healed hands. She doesn’t hesitate to yank back the sheets and inspect his feet. Elsa flinches, shielding her eyes – for only a few seconds. She carefully peers around her fingers to find Ida leaning over Michael’s ankles. As she lowers her hand, Elsa is relieved to see Michael wearing some night trousers this time.

“Incredible.” Ida murmurs. She pulls the sheets back over Michael’s waist, tucking a bit under his ankles.

“I’ll still watch over him, tonight.” Elsa offers.

“Are you certain, Your Majesty?”

“Yes.” Elsa hopes her answer didn’t sound too eager. “Yes, of course. And thank you, for all your help.”

Ida curtseys. “Of course, Your Majesty. We’ll be back to check on him in the morning.” Elsa nods, fidgeting with her hands as she looks around the room. “Would you like me to bring you some pillows and a blanket, My Lady?”

Elsa gives a bashful smile. “Yes, please.”

“Are we having a sleepover?!” Olaf asks with excited clapping.

Elsa smiles, kneeling down next to him. “Why yes, Olaf. If you’d like to join me.”

In truth, she didn’t really want him here, but it’s better not to raise rumors around the castle.

Still, she gives herself some time by asking Olaf to fetch some books from her rooms. When he leaves, she closes the doors and walks over to the left side of the bed where she crawls atop to his side. Michael doesn’t even stir.

She runs her fingers through his hair, soft as silk, sliding through her hands like liquid ebony. Gods, he was so beautiful. And yet, seeing him here lying so peacefully, it hurts her heart.

Michael has magic; and she has to tell him.

But it would require her to confess that she invaded – what could be considered – his privacy. She’d read books in the library about how there are some certain magic wielders who could invade a person’s mind, making them their puppet and not even realize it.

She had crossed a line with him – but maybe if she insisted it wasn’t intentional, he might understand . . .

Elsa sighs, collapsing into the pillows. Tucking a hand under her cheek, she simply stares at Michael as he breathes. Her eyes drift to his full lips.

She remembered feeling their touch just above her ear; how it sent a spool of warmth throughout her body . . . and even deeper. Elsa leans forward, placing her lips on Michael’s forehead as soft as a moth’s wings.

Michael stirs, and Elsa freezes like a deer in the road as he groans and turns on his side, facing her. The sedatives must be wearing off. Or they could’ve worn off already, and he’s just been faking it. Her cheeks grow warm as Elsa attempts to ease off the bed.

But not before she reaches out a hand to caress the side of his face, tracing along his cheek, across his jaw, and down to his chin.

Elsa shakes her head, remaining focused on monitoring him for the night, and how things will go in the morning.

She has to tell him. She just has too, and maybe once she’s figured out how to say it.

Olaf and Ida soon return with books and blankets, Elsa rearranging some of the couches and chairs to face the foot of the bed.

Olaf makes a small little fort out of the chairs and seat cushions, leaving Elsa the couch.

As she and Olaf settle down, she still can’t keep her eyes off Michael, waiting for him to move. To see if he’ll wake up, and what he’ll remember.

It’s one of the longest nights of Elsa’s life.


	14. Chapter 14

Michael awakens.

His mouth is bone dry and his head pounds, but he can move. He can wiggle his toes and his fingers, and he recognizes the smell of the sheets well enough to know that he is in his bed, in his room, and that he is safe.

His eyelids are heavy as he opens them, blinking away the blurriness that still lingers. His stomach aches, but the sedatives have worn off. He looks to his left, as if he somehow knew, even in sleep, where she is.

Elsa dozes on the couch, her arms and legs folded in, her head tilted to the side, cradled by a pillow, squishing her braid and exaggerating her long elegant neck. The skirt of her magenta nightgown spills over the edge of the couch. From the angle of the sunlight, it is probably around dawn.

“Elsa,” he rasps.

She is instantly awake and alert, leaning towards him as if she, too, always knew where he is. When she sees him, she quickly rubs her eyes and practically leaps from her seat to rush to his bedside. “Michael. You’re awake,” she says, her voice a raspy hum, laced with deep relief. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore.” He looks at himself; he is shirtless, but underneath the sheets he can feel he’s wearing undershorts and his night trousers. His hands are bandaged but he can feel the gauze sliding a bit; either from sweat or salve they put on.

Leaning to peer around the queen, he finds a little fort of pillows has been made from cushions. Elsa seems to notice and gives a huff of a laugh. “Olaf wanted to stay with me. He must’ve left already.”

Michael shrugs his shoulders, returning his gaze to his hands. He’s so preoccupied that he startles when Elsa suddenly throws her arms around his neck. She takes deep breaths as she nuzzles close to him.

“Thank goodness you’re okay.” She mumbles. Her arms grip tighter; Michael feeling her hand cupping the back of his head from beneath the pillow. “I’m so sorry.”

He uses his left hand to rub her back, his right arm being trapped beneath her chest. He pets her head, stroking the back like his mother used to do with him. “Hey, it’s okay.” He croaks. “You didn’t mean to.”

Elsa still shudders from a couple of sobs before she pulls back and wipes her nose on the back of her hand. Michael can’t help but smile at how un-queen-like the gesture appears. Unaware of his movements, Michael gently takes the queen’s wrist and pulls it away from her face. With his other hand, he wipes away the remaining streaks, her cheeks already so red.

“Hey, it’s okay.” He whispers, near wincing at how stark his hands seem compared to her skin. He’s never seen someone so pale; as if she’s never seen sunlight.

“It’s not . . . it’s not.” She mumbles in response. “I thought I had it under control – at least enough that things like this wouldn’t happen again.”

She pulls back until she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her hand coming to rest on his own. Her gaze is downcast, facing away from him. He can see her other hand fiddling with the end of her braid. Her profile looks so elegant, and his chest pinches as she shuts her eyes in shame.

Michael encloses his fingers around hers. “Mistakes happen, Elsa. It’s fine.”

“Now it is, at least.”

“Indeed.” Michael sighs, lifting his left hand, turning it over to look at the bandages. “The servants do great work.”

Elsa sniffs, wiping her nose on her sleeve. She seems to perk up a little as she lifts Michael’s right hand. “Well, they _did_ have some help.”

A rogue smile tugs up one corner of his mouth. “Oh, really?”

“Yes,” Elsa affirms. She sits up straighter and folds her hands in her lap, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. “Since it was my fault you had such injuries, I took it upon myself to help fix it.”

Her face still falters a little as she takes blame, but it lightens just as quickly. Michael looks to her, folding his fingers together on his stomach. Without a word – or need – Elsa near hops off the bed to adjust Michael’s pillows. She simply motions him forward, to which after giving her a snort that he knew would make her red in the cheeks, he obliges. She builds them so that Michael sits up while making sure he’s still in the upmost comfort.

“And how, may I ask, did you do this?” Michael asks hiding the caution from his voice. Elsa begins to rub her fingers.

“I was able to use my magic to, locate it. And when I did, I was able to reverse its effects on you.”

Michael’s brows furrow as he looks back to his hands, turning them over again. “You can do that?” The queen nods. “How?”

“I wish I knew. Not many of the servants know how to handle my magic still, and thankfully after what happened three years ago, I’ve only had small accidents.”

“Well, if they don’t know how to really handle it, then how did they . . .” Michael trails off as he looks to the queen.

“I mean, they did what they could but . . .” More fidgeting. When she looks to him, infamy seems to darken her cerulean eyes. “It was a lot worse, in the beginning. They had feared you would have needed amputation.”

His blink is the only sign of shock. Elsa folds her lips in as she continues.

“I was scared. I didn’t want that to happen; I didn’t want to be the cause of a horrid life change for you – and I know that sounds selfish, and believe me it’s not because I didn’t want you blood on my hands, I just . . . I didn’t want to be the reason for someone suffering again. I didn’t want you to hate me.”

Michael reaches out one bandaged hand to Elsa’s; the movement so natural. They feel so cold, but he doesn’t shiver. “I could never hate you, Elsa.” She looks to him, her eyes lined with tears. She quickly wipes them away with her free hand. “You made a mistake, but you fixed it. And I will always be grateful for that.”

When there’s still doubt in her eyes, when she still refuses to look to him, Michael leans forward as he pulls her towards him. With his other hand, he grabs her chin as she gasps.

“Elsa, you’re going to be fine. _I’m_ going to be fine, because of you.”

Those beautiful cerulean eyes blink, her lashes like a wide black fan. “If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t even be in this situation.”

Michael nods with a slight pout on his lips. “Perhaps. But if not you, I likely would’ve hurt my hands again some other way.”

“Stop,” Elsa says. She probably meant to sound serious, but Michael managed to draw a small giggle from her. Still, he can see her eyes flick to shielded scar on his right hand.

As a smile starts to stretch her lips, Michael brushes his fingers along her cheek. Her hands immediately cradle his, leaning into his touch. The fingers of her right-hand wrap around his wrist, while the left fits into the space between his own, like a puzzle piece finding its place. She stays that way for a moment; eyes closed, relaxed into his touch.

Michael blinks slowly with disbelief. He’s never really had anyone confide to him; let alone having to comfort someone. Hell, most of the other rebels didn’t really want his company unless necessary. And it’s not like he cared – he didn’t really want their company either. At the time, his heart was – and still is – so full of rage and darkness . . . and that cold, numbing silence that he felt little of anything.

He wanted nothing.

And yet, with the queen he says more in five minutes than he has in weeks. With her, things are starting to become, familiar again. Become . . . warm.

As her eyes flutter open, he can’t help but look to her rosy lips.

He sighs, shaking his head.

There is a line with Elsa. One that he shouldn’t toy with – and one that defiantly should not be crossed. Even if nearly every part of him wants nothing more than to have her lay on top of him; place those lips on his cheeks, his forehead . . . his own lips.

Michael withdraws his hand, Elsa not noticing it as she wipes her eyes. He fiddles with the knot of the bandage. But then she says, “I wish you were there.”

He looks to her confused, finding her staring down at her hands again. Her lips are folded in, showing the instant regret in her outburst.

“For what?” Michael asks, not letting her get off that easy.

“For . . . everything. I wonder how much better I would’ve been if you were there; especially after losing my parents.”

So she did remember him comforting her. He wonders if she remembers the kiss. Michael tries not to; chalking it up to being caught up in a moment just as she was. The queen was scared, and vulnerable. He was taught little by the medics on the topic of anxiety, but he knew enough to recognize an attack. He surprised even himself when he was able to remember the steps.

“Everyone makes mistakes, no matter how big or small; regardless, they help us grow, and learn. No one ever learned anything by being good and knowing everything.”

Elsa chuckles. “Was that some advice from you trainers?”

“Well it was more along the lines of: You make that mistake again, and you’ll find yourself without a head. But yes, credit could go to my trainers, I suppose.”

The queen giggles again, wiping nonexistent dirt off her skirt. Her eyes flick between him and her hands for a moment before she asks, “May I?”

She motions a flawless hand towards him, and Michael can only assume she means to give him a hug. The corner of his mouth turns up and he nods through a sigh. Despite not having a shirt on, Michael decides to indulge the queen, especially after having such an attack, it’s a miracle she wants to be touched at all. When he outstretches his right arm, Elsa adjusts herself until she’s seated fully on the bed before scooting closer.

When she leans down, she relaxes on top of him, her arms once again wrapping around his neck. Her head rests on his chest this time, her hair brushing just beneath his nose. She smells of snow-covered lilacs.

“Thank you, for everything, Michael.”

“Of course, Elsa.” He rubs her back in comforting circles.

Thankfully – or maybe not – a near minute after the queen settles into him, his stomach growls.

And it growls _loud_ ; like a ravenous dog.

Elsa lifts her head with wide eyes, Michael trying to hide his embarrassment. She laughs are she tosses her braid over her shoulder. “Ida said you’d be pretty hungry.”

“Ida?”

“The woman with the honey-gold hair. She’s the one who took primary care of you.”

That’s right, he remembers near careening into her, barely remembering about asking for her name, even before they drugged him. But it did ring a bell, at least. “How are they?”

“Fine. They went back to bed after I insisted to watch over you. They did look exhausted.” Elsa turns her head and Michael follows her gaze to a wheelchair parked in the corner of his rooms, just behind the door. “I could only assume they carried you up the steps in the wheelchair.

Michael bites his lip. Whether they asked for assistance – which he doubts they did in order to avoid suspicion – he can’t hide his blushing cheeks at the idea of those two women lugging him up the steps in that wheelchair. “I hope they were given the day off.”

“Oh, absolutely. And a raise, of course. But Ida did insist I fetch her when you woke up, see how you were feeling. They were worried they gave you too much sedatives.”

“I feel fine.” Michael says, wiggling his fingers and fisting his hands.

Elsa slips off the bed and heads for the door. “Be that as it may, I’m not going to risk anything. You wait here and I’ll get some food. Then I’ll have someone fetch Ida.”

Michael begins removing the sheets, ready to put his feet into his slippers. But despite the humor lighting his eyes, each movement is heavy and slow — fighting exhaustion with every breath. It’s obvious enough for the queen as she stomps over, pressing her hands to his shoulders. “No, no, no. You need to stay in bed and rest. You can’t risk putting pressure on your hands and feet yet.”

“You said you healed everything.” Michael smirks.

Elsa pouts, pointing her finger in his face while keeping one hand on his shoulders. “I also said to wait until Ida comes and gives her final decision.” 

Knowing she can’t match him in strength, she starts to pull the sheets back up over his legs, as if it’ll help trap him. “Even so, I could just call and order some food here.”

“No. Since I almost froze your hands and feet off, I do owe you a favor.” Elsa smiles.

Michael gives her a teasing smirk. “Or twenty; for each finger and toe.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Honestly, Elsa you really don’t have to –”

“I want to, and I’m going to.” With that, she’s out the door and padding down the raspberry-red hallway.

Ten minutes later, a servant woman holds the door open for Elsa as she walks in, a fully covered silver tray in her hands.

“Considering that you brought the entire damn kitchen,” he muses as she heads for the desk, still not bothering to put a shirt on, “I should have just gone downstairs.”

Elsa sticks out her tongue, but scowls as she scans the cluttered desk for any spare space. None. Even the small table by the window is covered with things. All important, vital things. Elsa makes do with the bed.

Michael adjusts himself with the servant woman’s help, and Elsa places the tray across his lap. He sighs at the mix of smells infatuating his nose: from the bowl of porridge sprinkled with brown sugar, to the neatly folded omelet with mushrooms, to the pieces of sausage lay next to a short stack of buttered pancakes. In a small bowl are chopped pieces of strawberry, cantaloupe, raspberries, and blueberries. As if it all weren’t enough, Elsa walks into the dining room where Michael can hear her poring a glass of water.

Only when he’s digging into the food does he realize how hungry he is. After the first strawberry hit his tongue, he nearly wolfed down the entire tray. A little more than embarrassed as Elsa returns, Michael tries not to look too desperate for the water as hiccups start to jump in his throat.

Elsa sits on the edge of the bed, folding in her lips to keep from laughing. Michael gulps down the water, silently grateful she goes to refill the glass. He finishes the omelet and sausage, starting on the bowl of porridge as she takes her seat again. He notes how her eyes keep going to his hands, monitoring the movement of his fingers.

“How do you feel?” she repeats after a time.

Looking to her, he sets down the silverware to wipe his mouth. “Fine, Elsa.” Michael says, rolling his eyes.

Elsa smacks his shoulder, “I’m just asking how your hands actually _feel_?”

Michael looks down at his hands, fisting them and wriggling his fingers. “It feels, tight. I can feel the healing skin stretching, but there’s no pain, or loss of feeling. I can still move.”

“Well then you may be on the home stretch, already.” A voice chimes from the doorway.

Instinctively, Michael’s hand twitches to reach for the butter knife, but he relaxes when he sees Ida standing in her castle uniform, a wicker basket holding some fresh gauze and a small variety of other medical supplies. Elsa remains where she’s seated as the woman approaches, sparing a nod at the queen.

“I must admit I’m surprised to see you in such spirits.” She sets the basket down on the nightstand, Michael holding out his hand to her. With trained skill she cuts the gauze and removes them. The chilled air tickles his moistened skin.

“Her Majesty says she was able to heal me, to some degree.” Michael says, eyeing the queen as she gives a sweet but coy smile.

Ida doesn’t even take her eyes off of her work as she says, “Indeed, it was something I’ve never seen before.”

Michael narrows his brows, looking to Elsa. He’s about to ask, until there’s another knock at his door. Both he and Elsa look to find Kai standing there, back stiff and shoulders squared. He folds his hands behind his back. “Sorry to interrupt, Your Majesty. I simply wanted to remind you about the meetings regarding your ball, as well as the princess’ birthday party.”

Elsa’s eyes widen, her brows lifting. Michael stifles a chuckle . . . as well as hide a bit of male pride at the queen being so caught up in taking care of him, she forgot about her sister’s birthday party. It wouldn’t take much for the queen to conveniently forget about the suitor’s ball. He wonders if the queen will use the recent events as another excuse to delay the ball even further.

Elsa clears her throat as she folds her hands in front of her. “Why, yes . . . of course. I’ll be there in a minute, Kai.”

With that, the steward nods and takes his leave. Elsa turns to him and Ida, who is holding his hand aloft, examining everything down to his fingernails. The queen comes up and folds her arms as she leans against the bedpost at the foot of the bed.

“How does it look?” she asks the servant woman.

“Looks like nothing ever happened, Your Majesty.” Says by breath of astonishment. “It’s incredible.”

“How soon will I be able to walk?” Michael asks. His bites his lip at his obvious impatience. Elsa gives him a small sneer, to which he answers with a charming arch of his brow. The queen folds her lips in, adverting her gaze as her cheeks turn red.

Ida is quiet as she finalizes her assessment, feelings along his forearms and knuckles, patting dry his hands with a rag, poking the tips of his fingers with a needle. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to ensure that the nerves are alive and receptive. Once she’s pricked all of his fingers and toes, and he’s about ready to smack her upside her head, she finally nods. “You should be ready. I can’t find anything wrong. Everything is responding well, muscles are tight, tendons intact.”

“Really?” Elsa breathes, seemingly surprised by her own work.

“It would appear so.” Ida confirms as she packs up the rest of her things. Michael can’t help but smirk at the equipment she brought in her basket – feeling rather penitent but grateful she didn’t get to use it. As she leaves with a slight curtsey to the queen, she says, “Well done, Your Majesty.”

She starts to show herself out, Elsa approaching Michael’s bedside as he pulls on a loose tunic, when Ida suddenly yelps. Drawing their attention to the door, Ida stands with her hand against her chest in surprise at an exasperated Kai bracing himself in the doorway. His face is red and beading with sweat; wherever he came from, he ran all the way here. Michael’s chest tightens as Elsa exclaims, “Kai! What’s wrong?”

“Your Majesty,” he gasps between breaths. He pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket, patting his forehead. “I have some . . . disturbing news.”

Michael is already throwing off the sheets, grateful he’s already wearing some night trousers. Underneath Kai’s flushed cheeks, Michael could tell he’s deathly pale perhaps even a little green.

Elsa’s voice quivers as she asks, “What’s wrong, Kai?”

The steward’s breath quakes upon an inhale, and he says, “I’m afraid that there . . . there has been a murder, Your Majesty.”

The tension in the room immediately becomes palpable.

“A murder?” Elsa’s voice quakes. Michael walks up to her side, bracing a hand on the small of her back. To his surprise, she allows such a touch.

In a steady tone, Michael asks, “Did they tell you what happened?”

The steward pads more sweat off his forehead as she explains, “The guards on patrol this morning were flagged down by a citizen who claimed to have found the body. It was at a popular intersection, and it looks . . . fresh.”

The green of the steward’s face begins to show more, placing the damp handkerchief to his lips as he coughs.

“Have the guards secure the area. I don’t want anyone interfering with the crime scene, and make sure no one touches the body until after I’ve seen it.” Michael orders, the queen still in shock behind him.

Kai nods and begins his walk back downstairs, Ida following behind him. Her face has hardened into the trained professionalism, but Michael can see the tone of her skin has grown paler. Her throat bobs as she swallows, the only sign of disturbance as she closes the door soundlessly behind her.

Michael turns to find Elsa with her hand against her chest, her eyes distant in shock. He places a hand on her shoulder as he walks past her towards his armoire. He would console her, but he needs to get to the scene as quickly as he can.

Elsa seems to snap out of her trance as he passes her and asks, “Why are _you_ going?”

“You hired me to investigate, so I need to see what happened.” Michael states.

“Maybe you should leave this to the guards.” Elsa suggests as she follows him, stopping a few feet behind.

“What do they know? They probably won’t be able to stomach it.” Michael throws on his black tunic and pants and begins adding the padded leather layers of his armor.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Elsa pouts.

“From the look on Kai’s face this doesn’t happen often; do they even know how to handle this kind of situation?” Elsa folds her lips in, her eyebrows still narrowing. “It’s clear that being in this picture-perfect kingdom hasn’t prepared them for brutality.”

Elsa fists her hands. “My guards are trained well, I’ll have you know. They’re not worthless.”

“I never insulted their ability in combat. I just don’t think they can handle bloodshed.” He secures his vambraces to his forearms, tightening all of the straps of his armor before sheathing some daggers at his waist. When Elsa doesn’t respond, he looks to find her fiddling with the end of her braid. “You look like you’re going to be ill.”

Elsa’s eyes dart all around the room before settling onto him. “Do you think this has anything to do with those assassins.”

Michael shrugs as he secures two short swords across his back. “I wouldn’t put it past them. And the timing is awfully coincidental. But it also doesn’t make sense.”

“How?”

“You and your sister are the targets. Why go to the trouble, and waste of time, killing an innocent civilian?”

“To lure us out?”

Michael shakes his head as he stuffs his feet into his boots. “I don’t know if a single citizen would warrant it. It just seems like a waste.”

In his periphery, he sees the queen fold her arms. “It’s rather unsettling how casually you speak of such events.”

“Really sheds light on how great my childhood was. And what I’ve been exposed to.”

“Are you sure you’re ready to start walking again? To start fighting, again?” Elsa asks. She steps closer as Michael finishes securing his weapons. To tease her a little bit, he looks at the bottom of his right foot, stomping it against the wooden floor.

“Seems durable enough.” He’s met with a smack across his shoulder, the queen allowing a small chuckle. As she runs her fingers along the plait of her braid, Michael asks, “Do you want to come along?”

The queen’s eyes widen slightly, her eyebrows furrowing in worry. She folds her arms over one another before sighing. “Maybe this is something you should investigate on your own.”

“I’ll let you know what I find.”

As he goes to pass by the queen, she extends out her hand. He doesn’t give it a second thought as he grabs it, feeling the squeeze of her fingers and how they trace along his own as he walks by. As they reach the end, he notes the slightest bit of resistance, of her fingers hooking ever so slightly to hold him for a few seconds longer. He takes steadying breaths as he leaves his rooms.

He doesn’t look back to see if she follows.

* * *

The guards were able to create some kind of semblance or order as he arrives. Still, his escorts had to push their way through the crowd of gathered citizens, Michael following behind.

He made sure to pull both his hood and mask up before leaving the castle. He never forgets to make his presence known to the citizens of Arendelle. Word of a shady man dressed in all black, armed to teeth working for the Queen of Arendelle is soon to travel quick. He hopes it reaches the assassins, whoever they are, and know to stay the hell away.

But he’s always eager for a challenge. He plans to do so again at the Suiter’s Ball; perhaps he’ll even polish some of his swords.

Though Michael doesn’t care much about his own reputation or image, the idea amuses him.

Immediately he could hear the murmur of the townsfolk as word bounced here and there, like a plague quickly spreading. Soon Michael is ahead of his guards, his eyes immediately finding a flash of familiar armor weaving through as well. He trails the crowd, weaving around curious revelers and vendors and common market guards until they all flowed around a corner into the town’s square.

A crowd has gathered at the pale stone wall of the square’s flag marker, murmuring and milling about. Guards are sternly trying to push the crowd back, ordering them to move on and things are under control.

“What does it mean?” “Are we going to die?” “Are they among us?” “Sounds like bad news, especially for the festival.” “What will we do?!”

Michael pushes through the crowd, letting Kai use formal talk of ‘excuse me’ and ‘pardon me.’ His eyes didn’t know what to stare at longer the moment he broke through to reveal the scene at the steps of the flag marker.

A smell assaults his senses – the tang of blood and the stinging reek of decomposing flesh.

His heart nearly sank when he finds one guard kneeling down over something, a single forearm poking out past his leg. At the sound of Michael’s footsteps, the guard turns and wisely rises, stepping back. No words.

“Holy Gods,” Kai mutters behind him.

A young man, only a couple years younger than him, is dead, lying in a puddle of his own blood, bits of his clothing sprinkled around like someone picked them off like petals of a flower. The man’s chest cavity has been split open and his vital organs removed. His face, stripped of its flesh, is still contorted in a silent scream. His throat sliced ear to ear, his head smashed into a long oval, the top cracked open like an egg with remaining bits of brain spilling out.

What unnerves Michael the most is how much the young man looked like him: black hair, albeit a little longer than his, and eyes that would’ve been a soft baby blue.

Kai coughs, looking away. Michael just stares, until a quaking voice calls his attention.

“There are more,” says a tan-skinned guard. Michael turn to him, his roughened face hardened with a deep thought. “All saying the same thing, right near every major intersection in the kingdom.”

Michael looks to where the guard is standing and walks over with slow steps. He looks to the wall. The smears of blood on the wall look like someone had been writing, and then rubbed it away. But still, some of the writings remain, and he tries not to gape at it.

He may not be as educated in the realm of magic, but he can recognize a rune when he sees one.

And they are inscribed all along the steps, on the cobblestone, along the base of the flag’s monument.

It is not something he can read

A drop hits his cheek, and Michael lifts two fingers up to wipe, and they come away red. He looks up, and his eyes widen.

“Oh shit.” Michael hears himself mumble.

The message has been written in giant red letters, the reek coming off them giving a cooper taste in his mouth, as if someone with very, very sharp nails had ripped open the guard and used him as a paint bucket. Kai follows his gaze, clicks his tongue, and swears under his breath.

A few screams erupt from the crowd, hurrying footsteps fleeing the scene.

THE HUNT BEGINS


	15. Chapter 15

Despite their spat yesterday, and Elsa’s unnerving nightmare last night, Anna was more than happy to spend some teatime with her sister – if she didn’t look so nervous about it.

Sitting at the table on the balcony, just outside one of the parlors, Anna thanks the young servant woman who just brought them some warm cups, and a three-tier dessert stand. Elsa is staring out towards town, as if she could see Michael from a thousand yards away.

The assassin had already left to head into town to check about the murders – of which still gives Anna chills to think about. She was surprised Elsa had let him go so soon, even with Ida’s approval. She was even more surprised when Elsa wanted to have some tea with her. She just assumed her sister would stay in Michael’s rooms all day, or at least until he returned.

From the way she acted last night, and into the morning, Anna assumed she either wasn’t going to let him out of her sight, or she would stay the hell away from him out of guilt.

Either way, this is a much better outcome. But it doesn’t stop Anna from saying, “If you weren’t going to pay attention to me, then why ask me for tea?”

Elsa’s head snaps to her, eyes wide; surprised to see Anna has caught her. She blinks and her shoulders slouch. “Oh, I’m sorry, Anna. I’m just distracted.”

So that’s it. Anna folds her lips in, stirring the cream into her tea.

She tries to ignore the hurt in her chest. Of course Elsa would want to meet out of some bother, rather than to just spend time with her. But again, Anna tries to convince herself that Elsa _wants_ to speak to her about something at least – keeping to the promise they made to one another not to shut each other out.

“What is it?” Anna asks, setting the spoon down on a napkin next to her.

Her sister’s gaze now sits upon the cup of tea in front of her. Her hands are folded in her lap, white knuckled, no doubt. “It’s about Michael.”

Anna pauses the teacup midair, the tea barely a centimeter away from spilling onto her olive colored dress. She didn’t think she _could_ hide the aggravated sigh and the disappointed slouch in her shoulders this time as she set the cup down. “What is it?”

Elsa takes a deep breath, her eyes flickering back and forth as her hands look for something to do. They settle for gripping the teacup. Elsa looks up to her, folding her lips in, color high on her cheeks. Whatever it is, it certainly has Elsa shaken.

“I think Michael has magic.” she blurts, the words sounding so pushed.

Anna’s brows lift, her eyes widening in shock.

Yes, that would definitely have anyone shaking.

Anna is left speechless, only able to conjure up a single word. “What?” Elsa nods, and the princess leans in. “Are you sure? H-How do you even know?”

Her sister’s gaze returns to the cup, her hands visibly trembling. “After what happened last night, I used my magic to heal him – and it worked, but . . .” Elsa’s hands drop to her lap, no doubt wringing her fingers like she does out of nervous habit. Anna wouldn’t be surprised if the skirts of Elsa’s slim, tangerine gown were covered in wrinkles. “I think I discovered something I wasn’t supposed to.”

“How do you know it’s magic?”

“Because of how it responded to me; how my magic responded to _it_. It had no form, no distinct ability, but I knew what it was. My _magic_ knew what it was.”

“Have you told him, yet?”

“No, and I don’t know how to. I’m worried he’ll be upset with me.”

“Why? You saved his limbs, Elsa, _literally_. How could he be mad at you?”

“Because of _how_ it happened – I felt like I was intruding; even worse, what if _I_ was the one who woke it up?” Anna’s blink is the only tell of her surprise. “It was just, sitting there, deep within him, and when I found it, I could feel it looking at me. Acknowledging me. And then it felt like this tidal wave of power just barreling towards me –”

“Elsa, this is _huge_. No matter how you discovered it, no matter what he’ll think of you, he deserves to know.” Her older sister nods, but Anna noted how her eyebrows lifted ever so slightly; surprised that she was defending him. Assassin or not – or whatever he calls himself – if Michael has magic it’s his complete right to know about it. It’s a part of who he is, maybe even part of his heritage.

“I know you’re right, I just . . . I’m still in shock about it.” Elsa adds, finally taking a sip of her tea.

“Did he mention anything about it before?”

Elsa nods. “He had said something about healers marrying into his family, but he never showed any signs before. And that he never cared to look for it.”

Rays of sunlight break through the large, fluffy clouds behind her sister, making the embroidered beads of her sister’s dress twinkle like the early night stars. She’s returned her gaze out towards the kingdom, her collarbone becoming distinct as she takes a deep breath, her braid falling over her shoulder.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re happy about this?” Anna suddenly blurts, narrowing her brows.

Elsa jerks her head back to her, her cyan eyes hardening. “What do you mean?”

Her tone is as sharp as a blade, but still Anna says, “Well despite everything you’ve told me, you almost seem like you’re happy he has magic.”

Suddenly Elsa’s spine seems to steel, her chin lifts, shoulders squared. “And what if I am? Can you blame me? There’s finally someone else out there who’s like me.”

Anna feels the verbal slap to the face.

 _Like me_ – two words that rake through Anna’s skin down to her bones. No matter how hard she’s tried to understand her sister’s abilities, there will always be a line that she’ll never be able to cross. There are things she will never understand, and with so many years apart, but even more together, it still kills Anna inside.

“Elsa you don’t even know if he’ll be happy about having them; if he’ll even want to learn how to use them.”

Even if she doesn’t have magic, Anna is certainly educated enough to understand some aspects of it: how some magic users will consume iron-laced water and food in order to keep their powers weakened; the different types of magic that require words, and some simply require will power; how some wielders claim to have a separate housing for their magic - a well some call it. She might not know every in and out of magic itself, but Elsa could at least give her some credit of trying to learn, trying to understand.

“No matter his decision, at least he won’t have to be alone.”

Anna bites her lip, trying to control her breathing as she takes a sip of her tea. Somehow it tastes more bitter than a couple minutes ago. Elsa seems to notice this because her sister sighs.

“Anna, I don’t blame you for anything. I just don’t want Michael to go through the same thing I went through.”

“I had made multiple attempts to try and be with you, Elsa, but you always rejected me.” Anna mumbles through grit teeth.

“I told you I was just trying to protect you.” Elsa retorts.

“I would’ve understood.”

“I never said you wouldn’t. But I wasn’t sure if I would hurt you or not. I didn’t understand my powers, I didn’t know how to control them. I didn’t want to take the risk of hurting you, even if you knew.” Elsa’s breaths are short, her words so pushed, as if they were fighting to get out. “I don’t know what your problem is; all I want is for Michael to know that I’m there for him.”

Anna growls through grit teeth, standing up so abruptly that she almost knocks her chair over. “And yet you’re there for him more than me!”

Elsa has since reduced to her queenly posture that gets Anna positively irate. Her shoulders are square, her spine steeled, her chin high and breathing level as she says, “I’ve already told you why I couldn’t. And I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. But since we’re being honest with each other, why don’t you just tell me why you’re acting like this?”

“I just don’t trust him, Elsa.”

Elsa almost snarls at her as she slaps her napkin on the table, sending her own chair skittering across the weathered wood. “We’ve been over this, Anna. If you would just take the time to get to know him, you would see –!”

Elsa begins taking steps into the parlor to leave, but Anna steps in front of her. “See what? That you’re not being rational?!”

“Anna –!”

“No! Ever since that man came into our lives, you’ve been nothing but careless! No matter what he does, he could still turn on us in a second. Why are you mad at me for trying to protect us, over some stranger you’ve only known for a few days?!”

“Because I understand him, Anna! He’s been through so much, just as we have!” Anna chuckles manically, befuddled at her sister’s response. Elsa seemingly unphased, continues. “He lost his parents too, Anna. Where were lucky to have them die at sea, he watched his own father get _executed_! Beheaded right in front of him, and then his mother died to give him a fighting chance; having to spend the rest of his days working with rebels, winning a civil war in his own kingdom –!”

Elsa pauses, Anna wide-eyed from the revelation stares in shock, her mouth agape. Elsa, suddenly growing aware of the personal secret she just blurted, folds her lips in. She turns away, continuing into the parlor, her breathing becoming labored. Anna stands there for a moment, her heart beating twice as fast.

It makes sense, she supposes. Anyone who watched their own parents die would have a reason to go into a rather, violent profession. Anna can’t imagine what she would do, or what she would become if she watched her parents die – whether by sea or by axe. She shivers at the image.

Elsa is pacing back and forth across the foyer as Anna heavily sighs before entering. “I didn’t know.” She mumbles.

Without even looking at her – or pausing her constant pacing – Elsa grits through her white teeth “No, you didn’t.”

“Elsa, please” – Anna grabs her sister’s wrist to cease, forcing her to stop and to look at her – “I’ve told you why I can’t trust him.”

“And we’ve been over on why you should, so why have this conversation?”

“Because I feel like there’s something else going on between you two, something you’re not telling me.”

Elsa was about to wrench her wrist free, but she settles down, her shoulders slouching as she continues to take paced breaths. “If this is about the assassins and the murders, you know just as much as I do. With Michael, there is more that I know about him, yes, but only because I chose to attempt to get to know him. If you want to find out more about him, you’ll have to go and talk to him yourself. I’m not one to blather about his life.” Elsa folds her arms, casting her gaze downward to her toes. “It’s none of my business.” Elsa wrings her fingers for a moment before she finishes with, “You can’t judge a person you just met until you get to know them. You of all people should know that.”

Anna huffs in frustration, but as she’s about to say something, Kai comes in. His cheeks are a little redder than normal, despite his skin looking pale. Anna hates to think about what they might’ve seen. The steward pats his forehead with a handkerchief before taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. “He has returned, Your Majesty.”

Elsa takes hastily steps towards Kai, so much so that he actually leans back at her approach. “What did he find? Where is he?” Her sister asks as she looks over Kai’s shoulder.

“He said he was going to the library. He wanted to do some . . . research.”

“Research? On what? What did he find out there?” Anna asks as she approaches from behind her sister.

In an instant, the steward’s face ghost from a ghostly white, to a sickly olive green. He brings the handkerchief to his mouth, as if the keep from vomiting. “It was . . . not a pleasant sight, My Ladies. I’d like to _not_ recall the details, if it is alright with you.”

“Of course, Kai. Don’t worry about it.” Elsa dismisses with a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder.

Suddenly Kai is mumbling, more to himself than to them. “I don’t understand how someone can look at that . . . mess, and not lose the entirety of his stomach.”

He begins to walk away before the women have a chance to stop him. They stare after him for a moment before heading towards the library. Anna bites her tongue to keep from prodding at her sister.

* * *

Michael had the location of the library memorized the moment Elsa had shown him where it was. It wasn’t the most spectacular thing – he’s seen bigger and honestly, better libraries during his travels – but it had books and likely it had information on the kingdom and its history.

And yes, maybe it did feel a little cozier than most.

He copied the runes he saw at the crime scene as best he could, the feeling of them burning a hole in his pocket followed him all the way back to the castle. He didn’t want to waste any time beginning his research on what the marks could mean – though a part of him already had a suspicious feeling on their origin.

Outside the crosshatched window, a heavy rainstorm had taken over the kingdom skies, as if the day didn’t feel dreary enough. He hopes it won’t hinder the guards in cleaning up the mess, but it’ll at least help wash the blood into the sewers.

Michael had been so focused on getting to the library he didn’t even bother to stop into his rooms to drop off his mask and cowl. Now they simply lay atop the cushions of the couch, some of his larger weapons laying next to them: his bow and arrow, primarily. The duel short swords stay strapped to his back, and of course, the multiple daggers he has both visible and hidden all along his armor.

As he runs his fingers along the spines of the books, he looks up the shelf to the older looking tomes. The runes he found at the crime scene looked old, dating back decades when compared to the books Elsa had given him. Enough for him to conclude that and older kind of magic may be at play. If the king had chosen to collect or keep such books, then they wouldn’t be at the bottom of the shelf . . .

Michael begins to climb the ladder attached to the shelves. He makes to the second shelf from the top, looking over the spines for their names. Unfortunately, they don’t offer such things. Just different colors all intricately detailed with similar stencils of flowers and vines. Still, Michael pulls one from the shelf, opening to the middle of the tome.

Inside are words written in runes that look very comparable to the ones he traced at the scene. Balancing the book in on hand, Michael fishes out the paper from his pocket with the other. He places the paper inside the book as he unfolds it, only to be disappointed when they don’t match.

And that he can’t read the writing of the old language. Of course, his notes aren’t the neatest; he just copied them down as quickly as he could – fearing they would disappear the moment he started to copy them.

Behind him, the library doors open and just from the gait of the two pairs of footsteps that follow, he knew it was Elsa and Anna. Still, he continues to look at the book, flipping through the pages to see if any of the runes match.

“Michael,” Elsa says as he feels the ladder vibrate every so slightly. He looks down to find her hand braced on one of the legs. “What happened? What did you see?”

He claps the book shut, the edge of the paper sticking out of the top to mark his place. He adjusts his feet and slides down the ladder, near missing Princess Anna’s foot. She scoffs and pouts at him, to which Michael responds with a cocky grin that he knew would make her see red.

He opens the book again and walks over to the end table poised at the head of a divan. “The crime scene was definitely gruesome.” He begins. “It had the townspeople spooked for sure.”

“What did you _see_?” Elsa repeats. “Kai grew sickly just at remembering it.”

Behind her, Anna approaches, crossing her arms and remaining quiet. Flattening the pages and the paper, Michael rests his fingers on the pages as he looks to the royals. He can’t hide his surprise at the earnest on the sisters’ features.

“You really want to know?” Elsa nods, Anna following, but the gesture is hesitant. Michael sighs. “The victim was a young man – a year or two younger than me. When I arrived, he was lying in a puddle of his own blood, his clothes having been ripped from his body.” Michael casts his gaze down, towards the runes. Upon looking at them, his stomach seems to twist with unease. “The man’s chest cavity had been split open and his vital organs removed. His face, stripped of its flesh, and his throat was sliced ear to ear. His head looked as though it had been smashed in, the top cracked open and – I’m sorry, you look as though you’re going to be sick.”

Indeed, it was more obvious on the queen with her pale skin, Anna a little less so. But he could see their widened eyes, their shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. Elsa’s hand has gone to cover her mouth – out of fear or sickness, he doesn’t know – but she then asks him, “Are you okay?”

The question surprises Michael so much he looks to the queen with confusion. “I didn’t know him,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. “though that’s not to say it isn’t a tragic event.”

“I mean, are _you_ okay?” Elsa emphasizes, taking a single step towards him. “Seeing something like that couldn’t be easy.”

Another shrug of Michael’s shoulders as he picks up the book and resumes flipping through the pages. “I’ve seen worse while fighting with the rebels.”

The following silence has him looking up towards the sisters. He finds them near glaring at one another; so focused between the two of them they don’t notice his stare. No doubt they must’ve had another spat while he was away.

He decides to spare them by looking back down and continuing with, “But on another note, there was something else there that was rather, disturbing.”

“And it’s the reason why you’re at the library?” Anna finally asks.

Michael nods. He picks up the paper and holds it out to the sisters. “There were marks that were drawn all around the body. I’ve never seen them before, but I have a feeling they could be mystical.”

Elsa takes the paper, Anna leaning in. Once Elsa is satisfied, she lets Anna take the paper next. “And what’s with the book?” the queen asks.

“I wanted to see if it matched the older texts, see if there was some kind of connection.”

Anna is still studying the paper as Elsa approaches to look at the book. Michael tries not to blush too much as the queen giggles. “Well, I don’t think you’re going to find much mysticism in our family tree.”

He thwacks the book shut with a jaunty retort ready when he blinks with realization, “Wait, you can actually read this?”

“Elsa more than me, but yes. It was something taught to us, for just, learning’s sake, I guess.” Anna says with a shrug of her shoulders. She hands the paper back to Elsa. “But something about those marks you wrote seems, different.”

“I don’t know if this is even in Old Norse; the writing style is different.” Elsa mumbles as she rounds the end table to sit on the couch.

“Well it could just be my handwriting, combined with the fact that it was written in someone’s blood, could have made it distorted.” Michael says as he goes to place the book back on the shelf. He bites his lip in regret as he caught a glimpse of the sisters’ worried expressions.

He hears Anna shift his mask, cowl, and weapons as she sits on the couch.

As he climbs the ladder, he asks, “Does any of that look familiar?”

“Some symbols look familiar, but I can’t really tell what they mean. Let alone if they form any words.” Says Elsa.

Michael slides back down the ladder and approaches the couch. Elsa is sitting closest to the arm, Anna on her left. He walks up and leans a hand on the arm, leaning over Elsa to peer at the paper.

“Do you recognize it from any other language?”

Elsa shakes her head in disappointment. “No.”

He hands the paper to him when Anna says, “But we do know somebody who might.”

Michael and Elsa look to the princess confused, but the queen’s brows quickly rise with her eyes widening in realization. “You think . . .?”

“Maybe. They’re almost as old as the land itself.”

“What?” Michael asks.

The sisters look at him with impish smiles that make him grit his teeth behind closed lips.

“We may know someone who can read these marks; maybe even recognize where they come from.” Says Anna.

“Can we meet them today?”

“They live a bit of ways away from us, but we can get there in a day’s ride.” Anna says as she flicks her eyes between him and Elsa. She then stands, wiping her hands on her thighs. “But we can worry about that tomorrow.”

“What, why not today?”

Elsa stands, placing a hand on Michael’s shoulder, looking just as confused. “Anna?”

Anna gives an impish grin as she folds her hands together in that incessant royal etiquette. “I believe someone has a ball to attend tomorrow, and I’m not going to have you postpone it any longer.”

Elsa’s shoulders slouch with a heavy sigh of annoyance. “Anna –”

They exchange a quick glance – of folded lips and insistent eyes and the raising of brows; a hidden language between the sisters – before Anna inhales deeply, suddenly chipper as she says, “Well, I need to go and pick out my gown, Elsa you do as well. The royal dressers aren’t going to tolerate your procrastination any longer.”

With that the princes turns and makes to leave for the library, as graceful as a doe. Perplexed, but not caring to ask questions, Michael simply takes the paper from Elsa before gathering his things. “Well, if you two insist I suppose I could just do some research and see if there’s any connection to the victim and you two; in regards to the Inferno Assassins.”

Casting a glance to the queen, Michael is troubled to see her so tense.

So, he sighs and stands straight before asking, “Okay. What’s wrong?”

Having been staring at nothing, lost in thought, Elsa blinks a couple times before she looks to him. “What?”

She’s wringing her fingers again.

Something is bothering her. And suddenly Anna’s little excuse suddenly makes sense. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, um, nothing.” Elsa insists, letting her hands fall to her sides. “Just, just tired.”

She walks past Michael to the doors to the library, and Michael almost let her leave, almost let her think she was free before he says, “You and your sister are hiding something.”

The Snow Queen pauses, her shoulders and spine tensing as she looks over her shoulder.

“You two were exchanging glances as if you are concocting some secret agenda. Is everything alright?” Michael points his finger at the queen and at the empty space where the princess was seconds ago.

“Michael, nothing’s wrong.” Elsa insists. Yet her fingers are now fiddling with the skirt of her gown, knowing if she wrings her fingers it’s a definite tell. Michael would’ve let it go, but the nervousness and concern on her face only makes him more worried for her.

Outside the window, thunder rolls as the rain splatters itself against the glass.

He takes a single stride towards her, placing his hand on her shoulder this time. “Look, I know you and your kingdom are scared. But I promise I will do what I can to protect you and your sister.”

The queen has kept her gaze on the floor but then looks to him. She folds her lips in before sighing. “Right. I know. I just . . .”

“Did you want to talk about it?” Michael asks. He returns to gathering his things; lazily carrying his weapons on his shoulder, his hand carrying the mask and cowl.

“No, no it’s not important right now.”

“You sure?” He looks back and finds the queen still fidgeting, but she shakes her head and follows him towards the doors to the library.

“Yes. Thank you for your concern.”

He holds it open for her, earning an appreciated nod. She leaves first, the air left in her wake smelling like snow-covered lilacs.

As they’re walking down the hallway, their footsteps muffled by the plush carpet, Elsa suddenly says. “Do you mind if we wait until, after the ball to talk about it?” Michael looks to her, she looks to him. “Less distraction, then?” Gods – her lashes are so dark and full.

Michael blinks for a second before he answers. “Yeah, sure. I don’t mind. Whatever you’re comfortable with. You are the Queen of Arendelle.”

That at least draws a small chuckle from her. “Sometimes I forget that, myself.”

They reach the intersecting halls where their rooms branch in different directions, Michael aiming to head to his bedrooms. “Well, I won’t keep you from your important fitting, Your Majesty.”

Michael dramatically bows, Elsa smacking him in the arm in retaliation. He spares a small smile before turning and heading to his suite.

Thought he didn’t turn around, he could feel the queen’s stare follow him down the hall to his doors.

He tries to ignore the shiver that crawls up his spine. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~This chapter was inspired by a deleted scene from the first "Frozen" Movie, called, "The Dressing Room"  
> Hope you enjoy!~

The clock on the mantle of the fireplace reads two in the afternoon. Which makes it approximately four hours since Elsa had left Michael.

Left without telling him about his magic.

And each minute, each second that ticks by, Elsa feels more and more suffocated by guilt.

After they initially split in the hall, Michael going to his rooms, and Elsa having to go to her fitting, Elsa just stared at him while he walked down the hall. A voice in her mind told her to run and to just tell him, get it over with. But her feet remained rooted into the carpet.

And all she did was watch. Watch until he reached his doors, and silently shut them behind him. Even still she stayed in that spot for another minute or two. She might’ve stayed longer, but a servant woman had come walking down the hall with a freshly folded basket of laundry, and Elsa had to leave before she asked any questions.

The fitting has now been going on for about two hours now, Anna still yet to show up. And Elsa is more than ready to just retire to her rooms, or the garden, or some place of solitude. Unfortunately, the thunderstorm hasn’t let up much since it started at ten.

Standing atop the small block platform, Elsa stares at herself in the three-panel mirror. The royal tailor is adjusting the skirts of the periwinkle dress – one of the six total they’ve gone through throughout this fitting. The other five already set on the mannequins by the window.

And Elsa is ready to just leave.

Anna was supposed to show up over an hour ago, the sisters usually having their fittings together – as it is a much better way to pass the time. She almost wishes she asked Anna where she was going if she’d known Anna was going to be this late.

The royal tailor – Cath – is a sweet, older woman of her sixties. She wears the same attire as the rest of the servants of the castle: her hair concealed beneath her bonnet, hands gloved, and her homespun dress covering her from neck to toe. She always reminded Elsa of a grandmother figure, with her delicate touch and gentle demeanor.

She pins another section of the skirt when she says, “That young man has made quite an impression, hasn’t be?”

Shocked, Elsa doesn’t know what to say, or what to do when she feels her cheeks warm for no reason. “Um, excuse me?”

“That young man, who’s been staying at the castle. He seems to have made quite an impression around here.” Cath chuckles.

“I – I suppose.” Elsa looks to herself in the mirror and sighs. This particular dress is flowing with skirts. Cath having said something about trying a new design. Elsa looks over to the other dresses, with their slim fits and flower embroidery. This one has a bloomed skirt – wide enough to look like she’s wearing a crinoline beneath – with the top of the long, off-shoulder sleeves decorated with chiffon flowers before slimming down to points at her hands.

Cath hums with a fiendish grin. “I tell you, the amount of times I’ve seen the guards usher away some young ladies gawking at him – I’m afraid they’ll have to start closing the gates again!” She gives a caw of exasperation that draws a smile and giggle from the queen. “I swear, the little poppets’ eyes were bulging out of their heads, and their tongues practically rolled to the ground. It started off with just one, then the next thing I know, I’m walking with some freshly cut bolts, and I see a small gathering of them in front of the gates!”

Elsa’s heart skips a beat.

She’d forgotten about the open gates . . . How many people have seen Michael training? How did he not know, or notice?!

No, he wouldn’t miss something as simple as that. And the castle courtyard is so big he could easily just train in the corners, out of view of any onlookers. He could practice under the mezzanines, or something. But even still –

“People aren’t, talking, are they?” Elsa asks, lifting her arms up at Cath’s gesture.

Without losing focus from her work, the tailor asks, “How do you mean?”

More warmth spreads in Elsa’s cheeks. “Well . . .” She attempts to clear her throat. “I – I mean, no one thinks he here as a, suitor, do they?”

“With a face like that? I wouldn’t be surprised if they did.”

“Cath –”

“I mean, if _he_ came up to me – or any other girl – asking for their hand, I’m sure they wouldn’t give it a second thought!”

“Cath, please!” Elsa says, despite the chuckles breaking into her words.

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetie. With all that training he does, I’m sure they just think he’s training to be Captain of the Guard.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“But if you _do_ decide to make him a potential suitor . . .”

Elsa doesn’t hold back her laugh. “Cath, please.”

The tailor smiles she tickles Elsa’s chin before turning to her basket of supplies set on the vanity. That’s when the door to the dressing room opens, and finally, in steps Anna.

“Elsa?”

Elsa looks over, ready to greet her sister, until she finds her sister dripping wet with seaweed on her head. Anna closes the door behind her, smiling unperturbed. “I’m here! I’m back.”

“Anna where have you been? And what happened to you?”

Cath has since paused her work on Elsa as she hurries over to the princess with a readied towel Elsa didn’t see when she first came into the dressing room. She hands it to Anna who quickly but lazily dries herself off, tossing the bit of seaweed into the wastebasket. Her braids looking like a tangled matt with their ruined plaits.

“Pig. Pie.” Anna says as she walks over to the curtains of the closet along the left wall. The closet that contained all of their dresses, old and new, some untouched, and others worn from constant wear. She opens the curtains wide before looking back at her sister. “I mean not a pig-pie, but pig _and_ pie.”

Anna steps inside, enveloped by the curtains, tossing out random pieces of clothing as she talks before poking her head out.

“And ocean.”

Then in a blink, she ducks back into the closet.

Elsa chuckles despite seeing Cath starting to writhe beneath her skin at the damage the clothes with have from the sea water. But the seamstress quickly sighs in defeat and resumes adding the finishing touches on Elsa’s sixth dress.

“Where’s my rose dress?” Anna calls from the closet.

“Still recovering from the last time you wore it.” Elsa says, watching the curtains of the dressing room ruffle from her sister’s constant moving.

“Oh, right! Sorry!”

“Please don’t make a mess.” Elsa says as a heeled shoe of tangerine orange just misses her, hitting against the glass of the mirror to her left.

Still more clothes spurt from between the curtains, littering the floor and the furniture. Both Elsa and Cath give long exhales before looking to one another, Cath raising her hands up in submission. Free of her fitting for now, Elsa begins to help the tailor clean up the litter of clothes that have covered the floor in seconds.

Anna suddenly gasps and glides from the curtains in a dress of violet and gold. “How about this?” she asks as she holds the skirt up and twirls.

Elsa shakes her head with a disapproved hum as she picks up a shift from the arm of the chair, and a random sock from the floor. “Mm-mm, you are _not_ wearing _that_ to my Suitor’s Ball.”

The dress – though lovely with its color choices – it has such intricate patterns stitched within that it’s near dizzying to look.

Anna pouts, but her smile quickly comes back. “Okay.” She breathes before she reaches down and grabs a fistful of the skirts and heaves them up over her head in one smooth motion. The air catches and inflates the dress, allowing it to float down before gently settling on the mirror of the vanity.

Anna is already back inside the dressing room humming as hangers click and fabrics rustle. As Elsa is attempting to clean up the room, already having a mound of clothes gathered in a pile on the couch, her sister gasps again and exclaims, “What is _this_?!”

Elsa turns and finds her sister in a ridiculously inflated gown with a combination of a bright orange, and olive green. It’s very oversized for Anna’s figure, the short-belled sleeves falling off her shoulders. The peplums of the dress are so stuffed they look like a mushroom cap. The skirt itself so thin that the overall shape resembles the fungus. Elsa had completely forgotten the garment by choice because it just looks so ridiculous.

“ _Oooh_. Ooh, la, la! My hips are _here_ , my hips are _there_! Oh! Pardon my behind young man, didn’t mean to knock you down!”

Elsa giggles at her sister’s clumsy dancing and overly eccentric accent as the dress bounces and jiggles like gelatin. She manages to compose herself to say, “It was just a gift.”

“From _whom_?” Anna asks, placing her hands on her hips, causing the dress to jiggle again.

“Oh, I don’t know. One of those, big countries.” Elsa barely says through a laugh. She digs through the pile of clothes on the couch and fishes out a hat Anna had thrown. She places it on her sister’s head – the hat big enough to fall over Anna’s eyes – before turning and pushing her back into the dressing room. “Stop goofing around.”

Still, her sister spares one final statement as she’s swallowed by the curtains again. “I can _barely_ fit through the _doorway_!”

Elsa resumes to trying to gather and folds the clothes, to help make Cath’s life a little easier. The tailor walks up next to her, her arms full of sloppily gathered clothes and murmurs to her. “This is why I agreed to have your fittings together.”

The queen chokes on a giggle as she bumps her hip against the tailor’s. The woman smiles despite giving a harrumph before walking into a different aisle of the dressing room.

Elsa manages to finish a pile of shirts before calling to her sister. “Anna,”

“Yeah?”

“Look, I . . . I appreciate what you were trying to do, with me and Michael . . .” she picks up a petticoat, about to fold it when she hears the curtain ruffle again. She turns to find her sister’s head poking out between the gap in the curtains once again. Only this time her expression is focused.

“But,” – she folds her lips in, her shoulders dropping on an exhale – “I didn’t tell him.”

“What?” Anna chirps, stepping out of the dressing room in just her pantalettes and corset that’s suffocating the linen chemise beneath. “Elsa.”

Elsa looks to Cath, who nods before putting down a neatly folded pile of clothes. She wipes her hands on her dress before quietly excusing herself. Anna dips her chin in thanks as she approaches Elsa.

When the door closes, Anna asks, “Why didn’t you tell him?”

“Because I panicked. I wasn’t expecting you to just put me on the spot like that!”

“Elsa, this isn’t something you tell him when _you’re_ ready. He needs to know, now.”

“I know, I just, I froze. I wanted to tell him, my mind was screaming at me to do it, but . . . I couldn’t. I don’t know why.”

“I know you’re nervous. But it’s better if you tell him before something bad happens.” Anna says as she slips back into the dressing room.

“I know you’re right.” Elsa says as she begins on a new pile of the clothes. “Maybe I’ll just tell him at the ball.

Anna’s voice muffles through the curtains. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“I feel like I have to. Otherwise I’ll keep letting my fear stop me. At least guarding the ball will act as some kind of distraction. Give him time to think.”

“Maybe. Oh! Found one!” Anna happily chirps. Elsa turns to find her sister hopping on one bare foot while she tries to fit the other into a heeled shoe. Its companion in her sister’s hand.

The dress she’s settled on is a lovely ballgown of periwinkle. The chiffon sleeves fall off her shoulders, cuffed at her wrists. A sash of scarlet red cinches her waist, holding up a layer of the skirt; the ornate gold detailing of flowers trailing all around the hemline and on the front of the bodice. “What do you think?”

“It’s fine. But wha –” Realization sparkles in the queen’s eyes. “Ah! No. No, no, no. Those shoes are _mine_ , and they’re _new_.”

“But they match, a-and I just ruined mine.”

“Well that’s your own fault, you shouldn’t have worn them out.”

“Aww come on! I’ve almost _never_ seen you wear these before.”

Elsa sighs as her sister approaches her, taking the other shoe from her and turning her towards the three-paneled mirror. “Anna, tell me something: Am I doing the right thing, by telling Michael this?”

Elsa wordlessly begins to tighten and zip the back of her sister’s dress. She can see Anna’s brows furrow in thought. “I don’t know.” She admits. After a heartbeat, she inhales deeply and adds, “But considering the last time magic was kept a secret, it was soon exposed at a ball, and a kingdom was thrown into an eternal winter.”

Looking at her sister, she knew her words weren’t out of spite, or hatred. It was meant to be a joke, but now all Elsa can see is how her magic was exposed at a ball, in front of everyone. How everyone called her a monster, and how she fled.

Anna can see the effect her words have, as she quickly turns around and grabs Elsa by the shoulders. “But that’s a different circumstance entirely.”

“No. No you’re right.” Elsa’s breathing is already becoming shallow. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell him at the ball. It’ll cause a scene. He needs to stay focused.”

“No. Elsa you need to tell him. Otherwise you’re never going to say anything.” Elsa is clutching her fingers, rubbing her thumb along the inside. Anna rubs her sister’s shoulders in an attempt to calm her. “You need to tell him, Elsa.”

The queen nods, her breathing settling. “You’re right.” She turns away from Anna to approach the window. She mumbles, this time more to herself than to Anna, “You’re right.”

As if she was listening for her cue – which she likely was – Cath returns to the dressing room, gesturing Anna to step up onto the small cube so she can start to adjust the dress. Anna does so, sparing Elsa a quick, assuring rub on the shoulder.

“Good. Now . . . _Please_ , let me borrow your shoes?” Anna asks too sweetly with a smile of white teeth.

Elsa looks over, realizing she’s still holding the other show. She smiles despite her heavy exhale. She presents the shoe as if it were some official royal document. The tip of the shoe pointed directly at Anna. “Fine.”

Anna giggles as she takes the heel, with a honeyed but victorious, “Thank you.”


	17. Chapter 17

Two days, eight hours, and thirty-five minutes later, Elsa stands on the dais, her mask of poise and grace beginning to falter.

And wanting nothing more than to just retire to her rooms.

Looking out towards the expanse of the crowded throne room, the musicians are playing a lovely jig, the tuba blaring a rhythmic beat that should have some of the revelers dancing.

But the majority don’t – only accompanying friends of the suitors, making easy for Elsa to see who’s here to see her, and who was simply dragged along for the trip.

Standing in front of her throne, Elsa folds her lips in as she rubs her thumb along the back of her hand.

This is just like how things were at her coronation – the memory still upsetting Elsa’s stomach – all eyes focused on her, only this time there are far fewer women at the party.

In fact, her coronation party was easier, because most of the dignitaries who were visiting at least had wives. Some familiar faces have returned with their heirs, while some of the suitors came _without_ their parental supervision. Elsa doesn’t know how to feel about that.

She’s been standing here smiling and nodding to all who approached the throne, sparing a polite bow.

And biting back her annoyance at some sly winks and eyebrow waggles, with smiles that are nothing short of vulpine.

Anna has since disappeared within the throng, no doubt helping herself to some of the tables lined with endless food tucked into the alcoves. She always did better at these kinds of events, she at least doesn’t mind talking to people with a half-mouthful of chocolates. And at least she had Kristoff by her side.

Elsa smooths the skirt of her gown as a pitched laugh draws her attention to the back corner of the throne room, towards the left set of alcoves. She smiles as she finds Olaf dancing with two remarkably pretty young courtiers.

“Your Majesty,” says some noble she didn’t see approach.

She quickly clears her throat and acknowledges the visiting prince, her greeting now no more than a terse dip of her chin. Once the line is finished, Elsa still waits another two minutes before motioning Kai over. The steward, ever the poised and humble servant, leans in with a nod of his own. “Is he here yet?” Elsa asks.

The steward shakes his head. “I didn’t see him come in. Though I suppose that doesn’t mean much.” he says through a soft chuckle.

It is Elsa’s turn to shake her head. “He said he would let me know when he would arrive.”

He had _better_!

She visited Michael yesterday afternoon to inform him about the ball’s details and schedule. He didn’t invite her into his rooms, and she didn’t budge, too occupied with her own strict schedule for the event. After talking to him for nearly ten minutes, he simply nodded and thanked her for her visit.

He then said he would let her know when he would be arriving. When she pressed him on how, his answer simply was: “You’ll know.”

And shut the door in her face.

She was so flabbergasted she nearly burst the door down with her ice, but Kai was quick to find her and smother her with more duties and notes and meetings before she could get the chance.

Now, Elsa is looking all around the room, expecting some flash of light from the shadowed corners of the room.

Nothing, yet.

Sighing, Elsa begins to fiddle with the end of her braid, still standing at the front of the dais despite the line having been finished, and the guest properly settled into the atmosphere. While it may simply look like her waiting for later guests to arrive, it’ll buy her some time to look for him before she’s forced into a conversation with one of these air-headed swines.

But then the doors opened to the throne room, and she realized she might not have to. At least, not for long.

A loud bang echoes through the chamber as the doors are shoved open. The thrust of the doors is loud as the musicians finish their song.

All heads turn, and gasps ripple through the crowd as a black cloaked figure stands in the doorway.

The conversations fall silent as Michael prowls in. His black boots the only sound against the wood floors leading to the dais. The crowd of revelers part as he walks through, as if he carried some deadly plague. His billowing black cape, the exquisite clothing, and the mask transforms him into a whisper of darkness. The only show being his eyes, their bold sapphire color twinkle with such mischief.

Elsa bites to lip to keep from grinning like a fiend.

While most of the guests cower in fear, some have the gall to snarl, despite their timid, retreating steps as he passes them, and swallowing his wake.

Ignoring their glares and keeping his swagger at peak, Michael approaches the throne. From somewhere to her right, Anna quickly comes scurrying up the two steps of the dais, her cheeks full of whatever she was stuffing in her mouth. She swallows quickly and clears her throat as she stands next to her sister and faces Michael.

He simply stares at them, his stunning sapphire eyes the only beauty that breaks past his attire of black.

Then, Elsa’s smile finally breaks past her control as Michael bows dramatically to her, flourishing a hand before him. “Your Majesty.”

* * *

The ball is being held in the throne room, and it takes all of Michael’s self-control to keep from sprinting to the long tables tucked into the alcoves and horking down the food right off the plates of the gathered princes and preening nobility. Roasted lamb rubbed with thyme and lavender, fresh baked bread smelling of cinnamon, ribs swimming in green-onion gravy . . . Truly, it isn’t fair.

The ballroom has been decorated in hues of lilac, rouge, and primrose, with swaths of silk floating from the ceiling and hollowed baubles of spring blooms hanging between. All while banners of wisteria envelop the overhang of the alcoves. It is something out of a spring dream, and it is in honor of the infamous Snow Queen, of all people.

Michael keeps himself stationed by a pillar near the throne. From this spot, tucked into an alcove near a servants’ entrance, he can keep an eye on the glittering ball in front of him, as well as the Snow Queen whose spine remains steeled as she speaks with various nobilities. Though he isn’t wearing the royal guards’ green uniform with the gold embroidered Arendellian crest, he blends in well enough in his dark leather armor. At least he’s so far away from it all that no one could hear his stomach grumbling.

Elsa had been standing at the dais, greeting all who wish to speak with her when he arrived two hours ago, but since then she’s moved into the crowd, plastering that pleasant, but distant smile on her face, fulfilling her obligation to court and crown by speaking with whatever gentlemen demands her attention. Which, not surprisingly, is almost all of them.

The queen is resplendent in a pewter colored gown with silver-thread accents, her hair left in its familiar braid over her shoulder. Her delicate silver earrings glitter in the light of the chandelier, drawing his eye to her elegant neck. Elsa is easily the most stunning woman in the ballroom, and he hasn’t failed to notice how many men—and women—have been watching her all night.

She plays her role well and smiles throughout the conversations, a graceful and competent listener, never once complaining or turning any man away. One talk finishes, Elsa gives a stiff dip of her chin, and before she can take one step, another courtier is bowing in front of her. She looks as though she’ll be shedding tears, she seems so bored.

Michael overheard several of the princes ask her to dance, to which she respectfully declined with the same statement of, “I don’t dance.”

Somewhere, a champagne cork pops.

No one has bothered to come close to him since his arrival, but that didn’t stop some of the women from ogling at him from afar. When he would flick his eyes to them – the only bit of him exposed – they wouldn’t hesitate to giggle and smile coyly behind their lace fans.

He doesn’t react, not that they would even see. Michael tilts his head left and right, groaning in satisfaction at the loud pops of muscles. Pushing off of the column he’s been leaning against, he locks his fingers together and stretches his arms up. More pops. He’s glad he only opted for his swords and not his bow. Trying to lean against something would be murder on his spine. He brushes his fingers against the rope tied to his waist, a casual gesture to the untrained eye. He opted to bring it for the sake of arrest, at least just temporarily until the guards can clack some irons onto whoever decides to attempt something tonight.

Michael does, and does not wish for something to happen.

His stomach growls, and Michael growls after it. He contemplated ordering dinner early before going to the ball, but decided against it for reasons he doesn’t even know.

“Care for some lamb, sir?” a voice asks to his right.

Michael looks to find Princess Anna holding a plate filled with all of the food he’s been eyeing, a small smile on her pink lips. The princess opted for a periwinkle gown, cinched at her waist with a red sash. The chiffon sleeves fall off her shoulders and ribbons of matching red are weaved into her hair at the back of her head.

His brows lift, though he’s unsure if the princess noticed. He unfolds his arms to take the plate. “Are you sure?”

Anna giggles. “I’ve seen you eyeing them all night. You looked like you were ready to pounce on the tables.”

The heat of the food permeates his gloved hand. His stomach growls like a savage dog. He looks to her with suspicion. “Are you sure?”

The princess’s shoulders droop with a sigh. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes, I’m sure. And . . . I also want to apologize for my behavior these past weeks.”

Michael blinks, the only sign of his surprise.

“I know I haven’t been the most gracious host,” she continues. “I just – well, you see I’ve made some poor choices in the past, regarding people and their motives – a-and it didn’t end well. I’ll just leave it at that, I’m sure you know where this is going –”

She’s babbling, and her cheeks are beginning to turn red. Michael is about to stop her, but she manages to stop herself.

“Look, the point is, I’m sorry didn’t trust you before, but . . . the way you helped my sister that night, the way you’ve _been_ helping her – helping us,” Anna bites her lip in hesitation. “I’m forever grateful.”

He saw the way the princess’s eyes darkened at the mention of Elsa’s nightmare that night; saw the way her eyes went to his hands, as if she could see the damage that was once done.

Michael can’t help but smile beneath his mask. “Apology accepted.” He looks to the plate, then looks to the princess. “Are you sure?”

Anna smiles with a nod. “Everyone needs a lunch break. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have food.”

Michael nods, his stomach growling again. “I’ll only be maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Take all the time you need. Enjoy something about tonight, at least.”

Giving a nod of thanks, Michael moves deeper into the alcove until he’s behind the servants’ door. Tugging down his mark, Michael first helps himself to the duck while Anna stays by the pillar. Better she stays so no one asks questions as to where she’s gone.

He was surprised no one really screamed when he first entered, half expecting some of the nobility to call upon the guards. Either the queen has spread the word about who’s protecting her, or since she didn’t react, the nobles put the pieces together themselves.

Either way, Michael hopes by now that the assassins put the pieces together too. if they want to get to the sisters, they have to go through him first.

A young servant woman mumbles, “Excuse me,” as she shimmies by Michael with a handful of empty dishes. The latter offering his apologies and stepping out of her way. He didn’t realize how hungry he was until he was halfway through the mashed potatoes and needed to get a drink from eating too fast. Thankfully, Anna has unique foresight, bringing him a glass of water.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

He expects her to go back by the pillar, but she remains at his side and asks, “So, how’s everything looking tonight?”

Michael finishes half of the glass before answering. “Apart from some of the nobles’ intentions with the queen being less than desirable, nothing out of the ordinary.” The princess looks to him with concern, Michael quick to wave it off. “She’ll be fine. No one would be stupid enough to try. What about you? Enjoying yourself?”

“Always,” Anna says, but her smile doesn’t reach her cheeks. She turns towards the crowd, as if she can see exactly where her sister is in the throng. “I’ve never had much interaction with people growing up. I don’t know if Elsa told you . . .”

Michael takes a final spoonful of mashed potatoes, moving on to the two slices of baked cinnamon bread. “Only brief snippets here and there, and I never bothered to pry. It’s none of my business.”

Anna leans against the wall with her hands behind her back. “Well, due to Elsa’s powers, our parents shut the gates and limited our contact with people. I kind of grew up, alone, in a sense.” Her gaze is on her slippers, a sad expression waning her soft features. “I remember we were really close when we were little, and then one day she shut me out, and I never knew why.”

“No one told you? Not even your parents?”

“No. And I never asked. I didn’t think it mattered after I found out because, everything else made sense. The gloves, the seclusion; and when I finally got her back, after so long, I still never asked why they never told me.”

Michael licks the gravy off the prongs of the fork before saying, “Well, if you’re telling me all of this because you want my opinion, I definitely think you should ask her.” Anna looks to him with her does eyes wide. “You’re her sister. You deserve to know why you were left out.”

“I think I know why, I guess I’m just wondering whether or not they trusted me.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, when I was little, and up until four, five, years ago, I had a single strand of hair that looked like Elsa’s.” Michael perks at attention at this, his eyes on the princess while still flicking to monitor the room, while scooping the last pits of his meal into his mouth. “And my parents told me I was born with it. But then, after Elsa struck me with her powers –”

“Wait what?” Michael interjects.

Anna looks and then gives a breath of a laugh. “Oh sorry, context.” She clears her throat. “After Elsa put Arendelle into an eternal winter, I went to go look for her. I managed to find her with Kristoff’s help –”

“And I’m assuming that’s how you met him?”

“Yes. Anyway, so we get there and we’re talking, and she freaks out from what I told her, and while I tried to calm her down and assure her everything would be all right, her powers reacted again and I was struck in the chest. I was told by the tro – um, some friends, that I was going to freeze solid into ice unless I had an act of true love save me.”

“Odd, complicated, but still sweet. Go on.”

“So just to make a long story short, I save Elsa from my crazy ex-boyfriend, who I thought loved meat the time, and after all was said and done and unthawed, I noticed that strand of hair was gone.” Michael lifts a curious brow as he tugs his mask back up over his nose. “So, it left me wondering if something happened when we were little, and that’s why she was always so distant from me. She always said how she was trying to protect me, and at first I thought it was about just me being scared, but now . . . I don’t know.”

“It would make sense, for all of them to try and protect you if something traumatic happened to. And especially for Elsa if it was her fault.”

“Yeah, so like I said, for me it’s more about if they trusted me or not to know. I mean were they even planning on telling me about it?”

Another servant woman comes over with a stack of dirty dishes, offering to take Michael’s as well. He thanks the woman and carefully adds it with the silverware in the middle. “I don’t know, and I don’t have any easy answers, Anna.” He walks back over to his spot by the pillar, Anna following wordlessly. He places his hand on her shoulder. “But one thing’s clear: your parents – your _family_ – has so much love in it, that I can say with certainty that every choice they made, they thought it was for the best. They thought they were doing what was right for you, and your sister. And with that said, you have every right to ask Elsa why. She’s your sister.”

Anna gives a pleased smile, looking out towards the crowd. She quickly begins to pat Michael’s forearm and he follows her stare across the room.

A guttural growl rattles his throat.

A haughty-looking prince, a year or two older than Elsa, was standing a little too close for the queen’s comfort.

Or Anna’s.

Or his.

With a dark suit tight over his bulky frame, his long black hair is slicked back to reveal a sharp-boned face and eyes of peridot green. He says something to the queen, taking her hand and brushing a kiss to the back of it. His lips linger just long enough that he can see Elsa suppressing the urge to yank her hand back. She says a polite greeting back, only for his eyes to dip to her neck, then towards her chest. The prince’s smile is so smooth Michael knew ten thousand women had likely been hopelessly swooned in minutes.

Michael can see Elsa say something that’s supposed to be a quick conversation ender, but the prince’s hand slips to her wrist, the other inviting itself around her waist. Apparently, a life of privilege made pricks like him think they’re entitled to female company.

He prowls towards them, his dagger with a casual reach of his hand. His cloak trails behind him in a wave of ebony. As before, the revelers part like a retreating tide as he cuts a clear path through them to the queen.

Fifteen feet.

He can hear Elsa manage to say calmly, “Take your hands off me, please.”

But the prince surveys her body with all the male, princely entitlement in the world. “Some men like it when women play hard to get.” He smiles up at her again. “I, myself included. I’ll make it good for you, you know.”

Nine feet.

Elsa meets the prince’s stare, some small part of her recoiling. The part that recognizes the prince as a predator and she as his prey.

Five feet.

The ball slowly grows quiet; the ripple of silence much like how a forest grows quiet when some bigger, more lethal predator has prowled in. Good.

Indeed, the prince’s gaze drifts to his right as Michael approaches. His hand tightens on Elsa’s. Just hard enough that the queen looks. The relief that floods her features blooms a warm feeling in Michael’s chest.

Two feet.

Up this close, he has at least a foot over the prince, much more in muscle despite how the outfit frames him. Michael doubts that bejeweled hilt and scabbard of the dagger at the prince’s waist was sharp enough to cut even butter.

The prince snarls in warning. “You are mine.” The words so guttural Michael can barely understand him.

“Your Majesty,” Michael starts, the mask having warped his voice into something deep and guttural, yet harmonistic and ghostly. “A word, if I may.”

Michael fixes his eyes on the prince. Promising death.

The surprise cost him: his grip loosens, and Elsa rubs her wrist as she steps back. She quickly steps behind Michael, but peers over it to say with a leveled tone, “Thank you for attending, Prince Alvin. But I think it’s time you go.”

But the prince isn’t paying attention to Elsa anymore. He is staring at Michael with as much princely pride as he can muster. All Michael can do is grin underneath his mask, uncaring whether or not the prince can see it. “And who are you to interrupt our conversation.”

“I’m Queen Elsa’s personal guard. And from what I saw, there was very little talking going on.”

“How is that any of your business?” The prince snarls, angling his shoulders to look broader and extending his chest. Michael bites back the urge to laugh. He looks more like a young child trying to order around the other kids on a playground.

Michael narrows his brows, the mask warping his voice like that of a demon. “Anything to do with the queen is my business. And I believe she just asked you to leave.”

“Hmph, you seem rather shady for someone’s personal guard.”

“And you seem rather handsy for a supposedly noble prince.” With the entire crowd’s attention on them, Michael couldn’t give two shits about being polite. That was Elsa’s job.

Thankfully, Anna must’ve gotten some guards to check the throne room, because some are making their way through the crowd, ready to escort this prince back to his ship.

As Prince Alvin begins his hollowed threats, Michael tilts his head ever so slightly. The mask hides any emotion he could have shown, each movement appearing casual. He unclasps the rope from his belt, barely glancing over his shoulder.

Swatting as fast as a cat’s paw, Michael whirls around, sending the rope soaring across the room. It catches and he viciously yanks.

Something is wrenched from its hiding spot tucked into the upper corners of the throne room, hiding by the triangular windows, the rope around its neck. It’s a brief blur as it crashes down into the wooden floor, having enough sense to try and roll with the momentum so its shoulder doesn’t dislocate. But not before a crater dents into the wood and a board of jagged wood lodges itself into its sternum.

It screams like nothing he has ever heard before as the ragged cloth rips, revealing a bony, misshapen chest peppered with scars.

Michael’s insides turn to water as he fully beholds what he snared.

Its face is something of a nightmare. The hood has fallen off the creature, revealing what looks like a woman’s face – looks like, but no longer is.

Her hair is sparse, hanging off her gleaming skull in clumpy strings, and her lips . . . there’s scarring around her mouth, as though someone had pulled her teeth out, sewed her lips shut, ripped them open and put them back in. Despite the humanoid appearance, she crawls on four spindly limbs.

She pants through her yellowed teeth as she looks at him – looks at him with such hatred he can’t move. It is such a mortal expression . . .

The prince has ceased his threats and stares at creature with fear widened eyes. People are gasping to the right. Other are screaming. Glasses are being dropped, the party goers all staring at the hell-raised creature.

With his arcane knowledge in mind, Michael knew a demon when he saw one.

And he’s seen worse conjured by some of the rebels’ sorcerers.

It still unnerved him how similarly human it looks.

The creature charges for the prince, forgetting about the rope lassoed around its neck. Michael yanks on the rope, hurtling the demon back into the dirt. It rolls to look at him, snarling to reveal elongated, yellow canines.

Michael yanks the rope forward. The creature comes flopping at his feet like a fish on shore. He walks around behind him as the demon writhes with a spine-chilling shriek, the rope taught around this thin neck. Wrapping another end around it, Michael begins to strangle the creature, its gnarled, bony fingers trying to wriggle their way between the ropes.

Screaming erupts from all around the throne room, Kristoff and Anna yelling at the guests to leave the room, several guards running around rounding them up like sheep.

The demon lashes out its arm, catching the skirt of a young courtier. She falls to the ground hard, screaming as she peers back. The demon starts to pull her towards it, Michael drawing a dagger from his boot to stab it between the third and fifth rib, right where the heart should be.

Another ear-splitting shriek and the creature hauls back, releasing the young woman. Kristoff has her up on her feet instantly.

The creature whirls and rakes its claws at Michael’s face. The fabric of the mask catches on the creature’s claws, ceasing the blow; enough that Michael takes the dagger and stabs it two more times before it slams its head into his chin, causing him to lose his grip on the rope.

As blood begins to seep into his mask, and the fabric starts to shred, Michael blinks against the strs in his eyes. The demon grabs him by the torso, gripping between the layers of the armor before slamming him into the ground.

The agony barely has time to lance up his spine before demon’s distended jaw opens unnervingly wide and attempts to chomp his face off. Michael manages to block with one arm, but the creature’s left arm is whacking at his head again and again and again.

Michael can feel the mask begin to rip, and soon it will be his skin. He tastes more blood and he can almost feel his skull starting to break apart under the pressure.

“Michael!” Elsa shrieks.

He manages to angle his head in the direction he heard her from and bellows, “Go! _Now_!”

But not before a blast of white cold ice envelops itself around the creature’s head.

As it flails wildly, Michael manages to roll out of the way of the next swipe, reaching and grabbing the dagger and jagged piece of wood lodged in the creature’s sternum. Blood slides along the lengths in a single, sinuous streak as Michael twists and yanks them free.

“Elsa, come on!” Anna yells. At the sound of two pairs of heels rushing in the other direction, Michael allows himself the momentary reprieve.

With a heavy swing of its claws, it shatters the ice and snarls.

He tosses aside the wood and begins to slash the dagger left and right, the creature hopping left and right to avoid the deadly blow Michael intends to deliver. But as his next blow misses the creature’s shoulder, it grabs his wrist, and a blow to his elbow makes him scream and drop the dagger.

Thankfully the mask is thick enough that it warps his voice to be unrecognizable. Deep and gruff like velvet midnight; his scream sounding like the howl of a demon, not a young man.

Before it has the chance, Michael kicks it in the sternum, over the spot where the branch impaled it. The creature-woman doubles over, but doesn’t go down, allowing Michael to knee it in the face. He fights his twisting stomach as he hears the crack of its nose. Another solid uppercut and the it is sent skipping across the floor like a stone on water. It comes up on its knees, hugging its sternum.

As Michael walks over to him, he tugs down the cloth to spit out a mouthful of blood. He draws another dagger from his belt. The creature heaves up blood, dribbling like a dying fountain. It slinks along its chapped lower lip, trailing down its pointed chin.

The stars have been replaced with black dots, and they’re swarming his eyes, his breathing slow as to not choke on the blood.

He asks, “What are you?”

The creature only hisses with bone-deep loathing.

Michael spins out the blade of the dagger, a different grip able to allow him to split it from navel to nose. As he goes to strike, Michael slides another dagger free from a hidden clasp under his forearm. While the creature blocked his left arm, his right was free to stab it right into the joint that connects the shoulder to the torso.

The pain and shock make it drop his right arm, Michael stabbing in the same joint as fast as an asp. He buries the dagger to the hilt, hoping to sever a tendon or a vain. As he removes the blade, he makes sure to twist, allowing a spew of blood to arc through the air.

As the creature slouches, Michael spins both of his blades out, both now dark and dripping with blood. Behind his mask, he smiles, and says. “Allow me to end your miserable existence.”

He lifts his arms, the blades whining, but the creature lunges for him. Using its remaining strength, it grabs him around the middle and charges forward like an agitated bull.

It pins Michael against one of the columns of the alcoves; Michael’s spine shrieking in pain as a white light flashes through his vision. He counters by stabbing his daggers into the creature’s shoulder blades, burying them to the hilt.

The thing is resilient, because it slams its head up into his jaw, causing Michael’s teeth to ache and red spots to flash in his vision like fireworks. Before it can deliver the blows that will surely knock him unconscious, Michael braces his spine and hands against the column, bringing his legs up to shove the creature back. It has enough sense and strength to keep itself from falling onto its back.

Pushing to its feet, its blood-laced scream echoes throughout the throne room.

With a drive of those surprisingly powerful feet, it’s on the wall, climbing like a spider towards the windows.

Claws scrape, hissing sounds, and the sound of shattering glass and then it’s gone.

Without hesitation, Michael launches after it.


	18. Chapter 18

Michael hurtles through the streets, sheathing his bloodied dagger to help give him room to pump his arms and gain speed. The demon-woman scurrying through the shadows.

He spits a mouthful of blood and saliva onto the cobblestone, aware of his breathing.

He thinks he hears someone behind him, calling his name, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look back.

When he burst through the front doors of the castle, people yelped and shrieked and cowered. He knew he probably looked like absolute hell, if the paled complexion of Prince Alvin was any indication.

He only made sure to adjust his mask as he barreled through the crowd, his cape a wave of ebony behind him.

People are screaming all around him, mothers grabbing children, ducking into their houses and shops as he follows the thumping of the creature’s feet. Michael sprints down the street, following the screams, the _reek_ –

His breath tears into his lungs as he hurtles into the alley, dodging piles of trash and parked bicycles. The demon had only gotten a head start. He can try and cut it off –

Where is it, where is it?

Michael clears the alley, careening into the Central Square, the street full of fleeing people and ducking behind any cover they can find. Michael leaps over the stand of fresh fruit, weaving through the people who aren’t fast enough, every movement as smooth as the day they’d been trained into him. _Leap, twirl, duck_ – his body doesn’t fail him. Not as he follows the creature’s rotting stench towards the outskirts of town.

Good.

Now no one can see him chop it limb from limb.

A snarl and roar rent the air ahead.

The buildings slowly dissipate into trees and a single road, the only signs of life coming from the light of the scarce homes sprinkled along the mountainside. His legs burn as he follows it up an inclined hill.

He never loses sight of the creature, doesn’t dare to. Using the moonlight as a guide, his eyes catch the slightest movement, fearing if he were to let the creature escape into the shadows, it would be lost forever.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t aware of the creature’s plan.

They’re away from the kingdom now, the buildings having disappeared; nothing but green trees and a vague dirt road created from the many footsteps that walked along the trail.

It’s leading him, somewhere. And Michael doesn’t know if he should be relieved or suspicious.

Both.

The creature is leaping from left to right, right to left; Michael wishing he had brought his bow. He would kill the thing instantly with an arrow straight between the eyes, powerful limbs or not.

The ground raced by beneath Michael’s pounding feet, the chilled summer air stinging his lungs. As he runs, he can feel his body enter that uncomfortable place of being warm on the inside but cold with sweat on the outside. He knew he'd pay later for not having warmed up or anything before launching straight into a full sprint.

Through the smattering of clouds, three early night stars shine in the deepening blue, but it isn't completely dark yet.

The demon is getting farther and farther ahead, Michael’s heart sinking to his stomach.

No, he can’t lose it –!

Rows of trees and thick underbrush emerge on either side of him. The farther into the woods he runs, the denser the surrounding forest grows. Overhead, the interlocking patchwork of hanging boughs work to transform his pathway into a darkening tunnel. Through the lacework of limbs, thick clouds inch by. Darkness creeps in around him, spreading its fingers through the trees, working to smear them into a single black blur.

Michael frowns, at last admitting to himself that something has felt funny since he entered the forest. Only now, he can place his finger on what.

He slows his run to a jog, listening to the lonely, hollow clap of his feet.

Quiet.

Everything around him stood really still and really . . . _quiet_.

The demon escaped him!

 _How_?!

It only gained five feet on him!

He glances over his shoulder at the darkening stretch of trail behind him. Black, like a ribbon of ink.

The breeze that had greeted him outside the forest has vanished somewhere between there and here, and he looks up now to find the tree limbs motionless, their leaves immobile.

Taking in his surroundings, he finds himself at the entrance of some ruined building. Moss and leaves and vines have long since reclaimed the weathered stones, enveloping them in a blanket of green until only certain areas of white catch the eye.

Quickly Michael gathers a bundle of twigs, tying them off at the middle. With skilled hands, he lights one end of the sticks. Holding it aloft, he begins to see the layout of the crumbled ruins.

Given the size and structure, Michael could only assume it was some kind of ancient temple. Only slabs of broken stone remain to show where the temple had stood. A few oblong stones – pillars – are tossed about as if a hand has scattered them. A pile of them indicate what might’ve been a tower.

He runs his fingers along the stone, shivering from a warm yet dull hum that traverses up his fingers.

Even in daylight, the stones would be noticeable, here under the icy veil of the moon, they seem to breathe with an ethereal presence.

On cue, the clouds separate, and a thick ray of light opens and spreads across the courtyard, making the pale stones and sleet seem to glow. He immediately retracts his hands as he expects the stones to burn him.

As he walks deeper into the ruins, he keeps a hand on his dagger, waiting for the demon to pounce.

He has not forgotten about him.

Up here, there are no sounds of the forest that is just to his left. To his right, the large expanse of Arendelle, with its castle wall and its town cresting along the shorelines.

Michael crosses the cracked floor of a possible courtyard, pulling off the hood of his black cloak. Having enough confidence to pull down his mask as well. Keeping his arms loose at sides, within reach of his daggers, he walks to the epicenter, almost feeling, uneasy with the stilled silence.

He suddenly pauses as the hair on his arm rises. His eyes flick to the torch and he watches in stilled fear as the flame bends forward, pointing to a darkness that seems blacker than the rest. Whispers lay beneath the breeze, speaking to him in foreign, forgotten languages.

He comes to a wall with a decent portion of its middle curtained by the leaves as if ready for a show. He can see carvings shadowed along the wall from the makeshift torch.

The images on the wall flickers in the light. It depicts a forest. A forest, and –

Fae. It was impossible to mistake those ungodly beautiful faces and perfect bodies. They lounge and dance naked around a fire and play music, content to bask in their immortality and ethereal beauty.

This place is old – far older than the castle itself. But what are pictures of witches doing far out here?

Even with their eyes washed away, their very presence seems, palpable. Not unwelcoming, but observing.

But something else feels wrong and it isn’t just the stillness.

A vague flicker of feeling; like something in his stomach, or similar to the chills of the cold.

Since he has stopped running, the air around him has seemed to compress, to grow denser. He can’t explain it, but it feels as through the night itself, unnatural in its calmness, has begun to move in on him, to close in tight.

His nerves prickle.

Something has been flickering oddly in response, as though the whispered prayers of long-forgotten worshipers are still being heard, giving power. If he were to admit it, he can almost feel the echoes of the power that had dwelled here long ago. That heat licking its way up his neck, down his spine, as if some piece of the temple’s patron still curls around here.

A hiss has Michael drawing his dagger in seconds. He looks all around him but doesn’t see any movement. Then a voice like velvet midnight drawls, “I can see why you wear the mask. A face like that could stop women’s hearts.”

Then from the shadows steps a woman of unfathomable beauty.

A pale, triangular face with sharp cheekbones, a pert nose, and round violet eyes – cold and sparkling with a remarkable, penetrating gaze. Her locks of curly, raven black hair fall in a cascade of curls on her pretty, shapely shoulders. On her long, slender neck hangs a silver locket sparkling with a multitude of tiny diamonds embedded in it.

He has never seen a face like that before.

It is a face of rage and fury. The face of the goddess of vengeance, destruction, and death.

The shadows seem to recede from her, a pilgrimage of phantom hands, revealing a long silk dress the color of tanzanite. The seductive, heart-shaped bodice and gentle half-mast shoulders cling to her full figure, the skirt decorated with embroidered lace as it trains behind her, pooling on the steps like liquid.

“Something wrong, dear? The blood seems to have rushed from your face.” Her voice is resonant and mildly derisive.

“Who are you?” Michael asks in a surprisingly steady tone.

As she moves with a natural, unforced grace, Michael debates whether or not he was encountering the goddess of this forgotten temple.

Those eyes conceal wisdom and imperiousness. “I am Wind.” She hums. “I am Rain. I am Bone and Dust and Darkness. My name is a snippet of a half-forgotten song.”

Michael lowers his dagger, but spins it out for a better grip, and to be able to cut this woman from nose to navel should she lunge. “Cryptic clues won’t get you anywhere.” He growls.

He keeps his eyes on the woman as she circles around him. He holds the torch towards her, almost expecting her to hiss and cower. Instead, it almost illuminates her pale skin, some silver halo around her head. Another blink and its gone.

Another blink and it’s there. Michael lowers the torch, shaking his head.

“I have no name,” she purrs. “I am the wraith that moves in the mist. Unseen and unheard.”

“You sent that demon after the Queen and Princess.” Michael states, following her as she continues to walk in a circle around him.

“Indeed.”

“Why?”

“Because playing assassin was growing dull.” She says as she picks at her nails, filed to look like claws.

Michael blinks, the only sign of his surprise. “You’re the leader of the Inferno Assassins?”

“Leader, creator . . . titles don’t matter now. I’ve grown bored of them. Useless pieces of shit.” She growls, yet her hand delicately traces an invisible pattern one the dirt dusted stone.

The way she speaks about, as though they were nothing more than toys . . .

She says with a sarcastic sigh. “But what is it that they say? If you want something done, do it yourself.”

Even the birds and insects do not utter a too-loud sound now. The treetops sway ever-so-slightly in the cold breeze.

A strange, pulsing bit of air pushes against his ears. A high-pitched ringing wending itself into his head.

The grip on his dagger tightens. “Why?”

“There’s a magic that sings in the blood, young warrior.”

“What could you gain from killing the Snow Queen?”

The woman suddenly laughs – like the caw of a crow – as she turns to him. “The Queen? Why would I want someone whose as delicate as her power? The queen may seem strong on the outside, but _inside_ , she’s a terrified little _child_. _Cracks_ under the first signs of pressure.”

“You don’t know what she’s capable of.” Michael growls.

“Oh, yes I do. And more importantly, so does she.” She traces another symbol on a different stone adjacent to where she started. “But this isn’t really about her, Michael.”

He tries to hide his shiver as she says his name. How does she even _know_ his name? To the rest of the world, he’s nothing – a nobody. The rebels never spoke his name outside their camps; they only and always called him by –

“You’re a difficult man to find, you know. But what else can I expect from a man whose battle name was, The Reaper.”

Michael’s insides turn to liquid.

He hasn’t heard that name in years.

It was a name that would strike fear in the hearts of many. When walking through several of the towns he’s toured, they would always whisper his name when mentioned. Whether during the day, or late at night, many would look to the shadows in fear of summoning him if they were to speak of him. His specialty was stealth, and Death was always his gift.

Each of the rebels had been given a moniker – either earned or self-created – as means to keep their true names hidden. It made it easier for them because it prevented authorities from hunting down every Michael or Caiden or Danika in the kingdom to see if they were tied to the rebels.

Besides, who would want to try and find someone whose name was known as, The Reaper, The Wraith, and The Huntress.

Michael often tries not to think about the trail of bloodshed and carnage that paved the way to his name. The amount of times he slit people’s throats until it became muscle memory; the way he would toy with his targets by slipping from shadow to shadow, hiding in the thinnest sliver of it.

But if she’s able to pin his alias to him . . . what else does she know?

“Who are you?” he repeats, but his voice quakes.

Another cruel, spiderlike smile, then she says slowly, as if she savored every word. “Like calls to like, Michael.”

On cue, the clouds seem to part, the moonlight opening wide like the shadow of a door into a lit hallway. It spreads across the central yard, and wall, illuminating the stones in a light like that of a dying star.

Michael steps back, suddenly cold.

He drops his torch, nearly pissing himself.

What he thought were images . . . he was sorely mistaken.

They are runes.

Ancient runes.

They trace along the walls in large, separate circles. What he thought were trees were more runes that still look like trees, only smaller and more detailed marks lie within as he steps underneath them at the center of the room. Then the Fae, the forest – all revealed to be combined ancient runes that make a larger picture. It looks more like the inside of the mind of a mentally disturbed person.

Suddenly, everything is tight, and the air has grown thin.

Cold sweat slithers down his spine as he peers around the covered wall and floor beneath him.

He looks to the woman. She smiles, and it is not a thing of beauty.

Spewing a stream of truly despicable curses, Michael goes to take a step back to leave this room and sprint the many stairs back up to the normality of the castle above.

However, a sharp pain in his ankle makes his release a strangled cry as he falls to one knee. A large and sharp spike had erected from the ground and gouged a long line up his calf; piercing through his pants and boots, releasing a thick stream of his blood.

He’s already scrambling back before his brain could click together what was going to happen.

But still his blood pools onto the floor and greenish lights spring up from the middle to illuminate more runes. He watches his blood soak into the floor, into the marks before that eerie light slowly grows outwards until each mark has made the shape of a square within a circle.

A deep rumbling vibrates the foundation of the temple ruins. Michael stumbles back and hits tailbone hits the stone with a hard thump.

Scrambling for his daggers, Michael cuts off the sleeve of his cloak to press and tie his bleeding leg. But still more blood leaks onto the marks and gets sucked into the void like wraiths on the wind. Like it’s feeding the marks.

A bright light begins to ripple across the marks.

“No. No, no, no!” Michael pleads, but he doesn’t dare wipe it away, remembering what a rebel mage said about the marks having a thousand different meanings.

Suddenly his joints lock up, as if they had been frozen from the inside. He can feel the icy grip as it forces his arms to his sides, his feet seemingly planted to the stones beneath him. he cans till turn his head as far as it’ll go, still fist his hands, but his arms and legs and feet are stuck.

This isn’t like Elsa’s ice.

No, this feels like the cold grip of invisible hands rendering him vulnerable.

His spine tingles, his nerves prickle. Along his neck and arms, all hairs rise to stand on end as he feels a hot breath behind him.

“You have power in you, Michael. More power than you realize.” The woman walks around to his front and touches his chest, tracing a symbol there, too.

Michael could feel his head flee to the back of his ribcage, still pounding like a war drum.

But the woman’s eyes are locked on his. “It sleeps,” she whispers, tapping his heart. “In here.”

Michael trembles like a leaf. The green lights still seep from the marks on the floor, illuminating her now figure, making her appear more ghostly now.

“When the time comes, when it awakens, do not be afraid.” She removes her hand and gives him a sad smile. “When it is time, I will help you.”

Slowly, that tingle he felt from the stones begins to grow. He looks to the runes. They’re familiar; the style similar to that of the Ancient Nordic, but less, sharp.

As the woman steps back, the marks shift to glow a delicate blue. Soft and slow, pulsing like something breathing beneath it.

The hair on his neck rises as he clamps his eyes shut.

He thought his stomach had dropped, but suddenly against the blackness of his closed eyes, a thread of gold and orange shoots out as if released from a fishing line, and latches onto his heart. His chest even compresses as if something had been caught.

The thread turns into delicate links of a chain to his heart and slowly spreads its way out and threading into the runes at his feet, binding him to it.

Then something sparks in his head.

And something ancient and slumbering deep inside of him opens an eye.

A muscle in his back twinges and he swallows and _breathes_.

It’s the one thing he keeps telling himself as he feels something shudder awake, filling up the spaces in him. It flows down his arms, snakes around his wrists, and then settles into his palm, his skin warming.

The world seems to shudder beneath him. Wait . . . or maybe he merely stumbles.

But that’s impossible, he’s so anchored to the ground, to the earth.

He tries to scream, but his throat is raw, burning. He can’t move his body.

In a panic, he clamps down on the magic so hard it suffocates. But he ends up having a violent cough. There’s a pounding in his head now – edged with pain. It is a knife slicing into his mind and body with each pulse.

Off, somewhere – he cannot tell what’s up or down or right or left – he thinks he hears a shriek.

Then he feels that shift and the surge, the well opening beneath his stomach and filling with burning, relentless fire.

Magic, raw and unforgiving, ancient and burning, erupts out of him, punching through his wall and lashing down his spine so hard he screams.

No. _No_!

The well of power overflows inside of him. He’s fumbling inside for that tether, but he is a maze, a labyrinth, the strings are all tangled, and –

“Michael!” a voice pleads.

He opens his eyes.

Blue fire erupts around him, Elsa yelling and the grass hissing. He blinks and his eyes ache as if he has sand in them. He falls onto the cold stone, gripping it, cracking it, as that wildfire reaches up, up into his throat. Whatever magic was holding has relinquished, or perhaps he overpowered it.

He is screaming or sobbing or not making any sound at all.

Its weight smothers him as he thrashes, seeking a surface or a bottom to push off from. Neither exists.

Michael vomits. There’s flame in his mouth, in his throat, his eyes. Real flames. His bladder loosens just before he vomits a second time. Looking across from him, he sees the woman standing there, her form unaffected by the raging winds and whipping flames.

“Help me,” he pleads as a wet warmth soaks his pants.

He can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t –

But she only smiles, her hair beginning to float, as if gravity no longer exists. Her perfect, pale lips part to say, “When you’re ready, come find me.”

Then her form is swallowed by the flames, fading into nothing, as if she never existed.

The flames flood his throat again, surging into his body and melting him apart, he begins screaming noiselessly, begging it to halt –

Agony cleaves him in a pulse, a flash of blinding pain as it feels as though his skin is being ripped from their hold.

That mortal, human weight vanishes.

His vision jumps between crystal clarity and the muted eyesight of mortals, his teeth aching, ebb and flow, shifting as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.

Strength courses through him, coating his bones like armor.

Invincible.

Immortal.

Unstoppable.

Immortal.

Michael tips his head back to the sky and roars.

A column of turquoise fire sparks around him. The magic at last unleashed.

“ _Michael_!”

It is too much.

He is burning up from within. Each breath sends fire down his lungs, his veins. He cannot speak or move.

Another form pushes through the flames, haloed by a gentle light of arctic blue. Something in his brain registers female, this one with hair of sun-bleached yellow.

“ _MICHAEL_!”

He shakes with tearless, panicked sobs. It hurts – it is endless and eternal and there is no dark part of him to hide from the flames.

He is burning alive beneath his skin.

“I’m sorry.” Elsa hisses, swearing viciously, and the air vanishes.

Michael tries to move, but he has no air. Not as ice begins to harden across his throat.

No air for that inner fire.

Blackness sweeps in.


	19. Chapter 19

He awakens under the canopy of frosted boughs.

It is still dark, but there’s an aura of orange light winking in the skies, like lightning behind clouds.

Swimming back to semi-consciousness, the very essence of thought has his head aching like a blacksmith’s anvil. Slowly his senses come back, one by one: the smell of burning wood and its thick smoke; the sight of the darkened night sky, a few grey clouds stretching across its expanse; the feeling of snow beneath his back, his head . . .

Snow, but it’s still summer here. Here, in Arendelle.

Taking a deep breath, the world tilting left and right, Michael slowly blinks and tries to remember his breathing. He rolls to his side, finding an edge in the snow beneath him. Reaching out his arm, he feels the blades of wet grass at his fingertips, the cold of the snow at his wrist.

He can feel the snow, yet he can’t feel it cling to his clothes – in fact, his clothes don’t even feel wet . . . On his shirt and pants and boots are streaks of dirt and gravel chalk. It seems like someone dragged him from the temple.

Is this still a dream . . .?

Whatever.

Michael forces himself to roll onto his stomach, letting his head rest against frigid, white cradle. Despite how hot his body feels, the snow doesn’t melt upon the touch of his forehead.

Sweet, cold and frigid snow.

Quicker than he’d like, the smell wafts to his nose. There is vomit on his shirt and pants. And then there is . . . He wet himself.

His face heats, but he shoves away the thoughts about _why_ he pissed himself, why he’d hurled his guts up.

And that last thought, about the fire, the magic . . .

“Michael,” a voice says with a gentle croon behind him. He doesn’t hide his groan, his irritated exhale at the thought of having to turn on his other side when the world is just starting to settle –

Footsteps crunch the grass behind him, slowly making their way around to his front. Despite the exhaustion, his back still tightens, feeling it arc like a cat at the sounds in his ears.

The skirt of a periwinkle gown, along with some slippered feet steps into his view, the skirt pooling and gathering as the Princess of Arendelle kneels before him, her freckled hand reaching out to him.

Michael blinks and breathes as his vision blurs in and out, switching between focusing on the princess’s face, or the full moon behind her.

“Anna,” he manages to grumble. Gods his voice is like sandpaper, and his lips feeling cracked they’re so dry. “What - ?”

The princess quiets him. “Take it easy. You’re going to be fine.”

Strong and leveled words, but she can’t hide the haunted look in her eyes, the pinching of her brows as she looks at him.

At this point, Michael doesn’t care, he’s beyond care about his appearance. All of that was flayed under the choking flames of the magic.

However, the smell of snow-covered lilacs manages to push away the smell of his own filth, as well as ignite, something in his mind to make him turn to his right side.

Head throbbing, he finds the Queen of Arendelle standing a few feet away from him, her hair billowing in a hollow breeze, monstering the smoldering temple ruins ahead.

Michael’s eyes flick to the temple, to the trees beyond.

The forest is burning all around the temple in a radius he doesn’t have the nerve to measure. Anything that was there before is gone, as well as the grass, and the dirt.

Only blackness all around, and the smothering shroud of grey smoke.

Yet the temple remains intact. The stones still shine brightly, near golden in the light of the flames. Untouched.

Michael stares in horror as he pushes himself to his feet. Anna protests, but he waves her off, resulting in her helping him to his feet. Elsa doesn’t turn to look at them. Supporting himself on the thick trunk of the tree, Michael watches as veils of snow pick themselves up, almost seemingly sentient, and undulate towards the flames.

How long has she been working to suffocate them?

“She’s been at it for almost an hour.” Anna mumbles, reading the question on his face. “Kristoff and Sven were here earlier, but we sent them back to control and disperse the people who were at the ball.”

That may explain who might’ve dragged him from the temple.

“Was he alright?” Michael asks.

“A little choked up, but he claims he’s been through worse.” Says the princess with a breathless chuckle.

Michael looks over to Elsa, who still hasn’t turned to look at either of them.

“Is she alright?” Gods his throat burns.

Anna shrugs her shoulders. “She hasn’t said a word since she started, and I didn’t want to break her concentration. She only told me to keep an eye on you.”

Looking at her again, Michael fights a tremble that threatens to rattle his body. How much power could she have? To try and extinguish all that fire, as well as making sure the pile of snow he was on didn’t melt a single flake, to keep that snowman Olaf alive . . .

Michael pushes off of the tree and staggers towards the queen, her spine steeled and unfaltering. She doesn’t even acknowledge his presence as he steps up to her side.

After a long, silent moment, he asks, “Can you put it out?”

A terse nod. “I’m almost done.” In a moment, the flames closest to Arendelle’s walls goes out. “We can’t have something or someone being attracted to your fires.”

Though her voice is steady, Michael can hear the exhaustion.

This is a weapon, this power. A different sort of weapon than blades and arrows.

It is a curse.

And a horrible, disgusting part of him despises the sudden understanding he has towards the former king of his own kingdom. The part that is beginning to make sense of why he despised magic and didn’t trust its wielders. He never had the guts to send his troops out and slaughter all of them, not with the already growing rebellion. But still . . . .

“You should be careful. You don’t want to burn yourself out.” he says.

“How do you mean?”

Michael glances to the far left over as another large section of the fires extinguishes like a candle. “All magic wielders have a bottom, a limit to their power. The breaking point. Those with weaker gifts can deplete it easily, but in turn, it easily refills. But those with stronger gifts can take hours to reach their bottom, to summon their power at full strength.”

Finally, Elsa turns to look at him. He could’ve sworn she seemed paler, about ready to collapse once she snaps the netting she’s casted across the sea of flames. “What about you? “Did you reach the bottom of it?”

“No. There wasn’t any. But, maybe mine was just nonexistent due to the runes.”

Elsa nods, slowly turning her gaze back towards the darkening circle. “What were those, runes?”

“I don’t know. Another kind of ancient language, one that I didn’t recognize.”

“And that woman?”

Michael grows as still as death. “I don’t know.” He rubs his arms as an unsettling warmth tickles its way up to his shoulder. It is quickly darkened into anger. “But I plan to find out. She said some, interesting things. But we can talk about it back at the palace.”

Another stiff nod. Anna approaches his left, arms folded. After another moment of watching Elsa suffocate the flames, she asks, “Did you manage to grasp your magic? Did you get a sense of how it felt?”

“It seemed like a tether at first, but then that tether led to a well. A well that opened up wide.”

Another nod.

“Some of the wielders in the rebellion told me how some use runes to summon such powers. Some use it to control them. I’ve read ancient tomes that spoke of how primitive tribes tattoo themselves with such runes as a form of permanent restraint on their abilities. Sometimes even inserting iron bits into their arms or stomachs.” Another breeze carries a heavier shroud of snow and more of the flames die. “You can do other things at the same time, but there is always some part of you that is in there, pulling up more and more, until you reach the bottom.”

“Does it normally do that – just releases itself in some giant wave?” Anna asks this time.

“Keep in mind my situation is different. I had runes practically overflowing my well until top and bottom and in between didn’t exist. But to answer your question: no, that doesn’t happen. Some can do it if they want to; some choose to release it in smaller bursts and can go on for hours. But it is hard to hold back. Many can’t tell friend from foe when handling magic like that.”

“That’s why it takes time for them to recover.” Elsa finishes. Michael nods thinking back to how healers would spend days out of work after fixing a magical catastrophe or healing many of the soldiers. “Depending how they use it and how much they drain.”

Anna hums once more.

“Some make the mistake of taking too much ahead of time, others hold onto it for too long and they burn out mentally, or physically. The shaking is my body’s way of telling me not to do that again.”

“I hope you’re going to listen.”

Michael nods, turning and walking back towards the circle of snow, dropping to the ground. He wants to bury himself in it. To cocoon himself in an icy tomb just to smother the flame and warmth that still sits within him.

With his mind clearing, his body seemingly starting to feel like his own again, a seed of realization sets in his head. Michael slowly looks to the sisters. Anna turns to him, Elsa next, taking a deep breath as she does.

When her eyes meet his, he can see her understanding darken them.

Taking a breath that rattles upon inhale, he asks, “How did you know?”

Anna freezes like a stag at gunpoint. Her eyes flick between him and her sister.

“How did you know?” he grinds out. The anger rises quicker than he expected, and for a moment, Michael fears he may have another explosion. He doesn’t know if his magic is heavily fueled by emotions, so he tries to suffocate that heat of the anger, turning it cold and solid, like a freshly forged blade.

It’s not better, because he can feel it fade into the frigid silence that’s pulsed in place of his heart since that day he saw his father’s head roll off the chopping block.

And Elsa, ever the graceful queen, simply squares her shoulders and says, “I had found out that day I had healed your arms, and your feet.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I was worried, Michael.” She tries to stop the sharp, jagged breaths. “The way I had discovered it was so, intrusive, I was worried you’d be mad at me for the extreme invasion of privacy.”

His blood roars in his ears, only fanned by the understanding, and worried quiver in her voice. She was going to tell him, he knew that, and it’s now like anyone had expected him to find some ghostly goddess that would forcibly unleash his own magical abilities.

Still the haze starts to creep over his vision, his muscles seizing painfully, his fingertips curling as if imagining shredding into someone –

“I wish you’d have told me sooner.” His voice is tight – cold. He sighs, shaking his head as his trembling hands fiddle with the clasp of his cloak.

“Michael,” Anna croaks. “before you had your magical, frenzy, something happened. Something . . . changed.”

Michael huddles further into the cloak, gripping the tree and forcing himself to his feet despite the barks of pain in his legs. Still the princess presses.

“It was like a fog vanished from your face; your features sharpened, your muscles expanded, becoming thicker and pronounced. Your form became more, detailed, somehow.”

He doesn’t want to remember. Not yet. Not when he won’t be sleeping for weeks. Those feeling . . . That fire . . .

After a moment of silence, Michael mutters, “I’ll meet you back at the castle.”

The words were raw, broken.

“I’ll come with you –” Elsa starts.

“No.”

“You shouldn’t be walking on your own. Your mask –”

“I said _no_.” Michael seethes.

He pauses, folding in his lips at the outburst. He can sense the sisters growing still, the tension stretching between them until it trembles.

He understands.

Of course he understands why she was afraid to tell him.

But if he has to talk to someone, he’ll explode. If he has to do anything right now other than walking –

“I’ll meet you back at the castle.” He repeats and starts the trek back to the castle.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michael's songs are inspired by Philip Wesley:  
> Song 1: Dark Night of the Soul  
> Song 2: Racing Against the Sunset
> 
> Look up and Listen if you want to follow along!

Michael pulls his cloak closed, angling himself so none of the passing guards or servants can see his soiled pants, the vomit. There is no hiding his face though.

A ribbon of marigold lines the horizon, marking the approach of dawn by the time he returns to the castle. No one seemed to be alert or concerned, so news of the “random wildfire” either hasn’t reached, or they don’t see it as a heavy concern.

He barely says anything to anyone as he slips away from the stables, up into his rooms, dropping the cloak and mask by the door, and into his bathing chamber for a bath. He strips off his clothes and steps into the porcelain tub, his legs nearly collapsing.

He doesn’t stir for hours, and no one comes to check on him.

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t feel like talking with anyone despite the flood of emotions threatening to drown him.

Normally he would’ve just ran it off – ran until his body screamed at him to stop. Would’ve just gone to the courtyard to spar with whatever, whomever until he collapsed, or until the world made sense again. It had always been his output, his way of puzzling out the world. Not because of a volatile temper, but because he didn’t know how to express it any other way.

There was never another kind of release that didn’t involve blades or fighting or hammering at a forge. Even when he was part of a select few of elite soldiers, able to learn more talents that appealed to the higher class, his lessons were always monitored, always so strict – never allowing any freedom.

A soldier has better use swinging a blade than painting a canvas, or needlepointing, or writing poetry.

Because he was able to rise up the ranks, excelling in any mission or raid or battle, he was hand picked into the elites. His missions becoming more devious, expertly toeing that line of humanity and savagery; missions that some would deem him as an assassin.

Lifting his hand up, water sliding down his forearm, he looks at the callus, at the scars – remembering each way the blood had stained his skin.

_The Reaper_

_Molten eyes and_

_a smile made for war_

_Avoid the shadows of The Reaper,_

_for he brings death to your door_

He doesn’t know where the little poem had started, where it even came from or who started it. Initially, there was praise for the piece – praise that the rebels were beginning to have a reputation, beginning to be feared and talked about – now, with the kingdom freed and the members dispersed, it haunts him. It whispers at the back of his mind, bringing with it memories of curdling screams and bloodied daggers.

There is one way he can escape the labyrinth of his mind.

It won’t be the same as sparring, but it will do.

* * *

After a quick towel dry and a change of clothes – opting for a loose tunic and pants, since the cotton nightshirts don’t really suit him – Michael pads his way down the carpeted halls on silent feet, hair still dripping.

At this point in his stay he’s managed to map the entirety of the castle, able to locate main rooms – noting what others flanked it, using furniture or hall decorations as markings. The first time he passed by the music room, he had sighed, and was taken aback by the beautiful display of instruments; some looking familiar, others foreign to Arendelle.

He passes under the archway and into the open chamber with high vaulted ceilings. Michael’s breath leaves him as he enters the quiet oakwood space.

The wide gold-and-red chamber lies stretched before them. Thick velvet draperies spilled from tall windows, like motionless crimson waterfalls. More hang suspended from the vaulted ceilings. A warm fire crackling in the grand fireplace. A tired crystal chandelier hangs, sparkling above. The hardwood flooring pokes at his feet with cold fingers.

Instruments from all around the world are here, each a proud representation of their country, built in wood or metal. From grand pianos and harpsichords, to lutes and lyres, flutes and oboes and clarinets, and trumpets and horns. All together they are gathered in this grand music room of the castle, mixed with Arendelle’s stringed instruments of violins, violas and massive cellos.

The ones mounted on the wall aren’t for playing, but merely observation, but that doesn’t stop Michael from walking over to a lovely harp and tracing his fingers along its strings. The instrument thrums to life, then quietly fades.

He looks to the walls and begins to saunter along, observing and almost memorizing where each instrument is from.

Michael eyes the pianoforte. He used to play — he actually loved to play, loved music, the way music could break and heal and make everything seem possible and heroic.

When he was recruited into the elite groups of the rebels, he had originally been forced to play, needing to appeal to the higher classes, he was ordered. For easier infiltration – no one would ever suspect a ballroom piano player.

To his own surprise, he enjoyed it – far more than anyone had anticipated. He had been good once—perhaps better than good.

But there was something about having the skill and knowledge to create beauty with his hands . . . to be able to use them and have them do something _good_ , and damn near _magical_ in its own sense. Sometimes he’d be so enthralled in playing at the parties he’d almost forget his mission. When not at a party, he would play on his own time, passing it off as practice.

No one ever really bothered him unless it was approaching a certain number of hours, or a time of day.

Carefully, as if approaching a sleeping person, Michael walks to the large instrument. He pulls out the wooden bench, wincing at the loud scraping sound it makes. Folding back the heavy lid, he pushed his feet on the pedals, testing them. He eyes the smooth ivory keys, and then the black keys, which were like the gaps between teeth.

Gingerly, with one hand, he taps out a simple, slow melody on the higher keys. Echoes—shreds of memories arising out of the void of his mind. The music room is so silent that the music seems obtrusive. He moves his right hand, playing upon the flats and sharps.

The notes drawl from his fingers, staggering at first, but then more confidently as the emotion in the music takes over. It is a mournful piece, but it makes him into something clean and new. He is surprised that his hands have not forgotten, that somewhere in his mind, after years of darkness and hardened silence, music is still alive and breathing. That somewhere, between the notes, was the boy who once dreamed of a future; the boy who was content living in a simple cabin in the countryside; the boy who had parents who loved him with every fiber of their being. So strong that he can still feel the echoes of it now.

Michael trails his fingers along the keys, from the lowest to the highest spectrum, his foot on the pedal, the notes echoing throughout the empty chamber. The song ending too soon, but somehow leaving the room more fulfilled.

Popping his fingers and wriggling his toes, he begins another piece, one of his favorites.

He starts with a clang of organized notes, trailing down octaves before trickling back up the higher spectrum. As the tinkle of piano notes seep through the room, he forgets about time as he drifts between the melodies, the harmonies, voicing the unspeakable, opening old wounds, playing and playing as the sound forgives and saves him.

With his hands trailing back and forth over the keys, he plays a warbling of piano notes. The music picks up, the pattern of dripping notes matching his movements. His hands seemed to float over the piano keys. And the way he moves, jerky and quick between smooth slow-motion moments.

An interlude of high notes trickles forth in a complicated pattern, accented by a few well-placed chords from the instrument’s lower spectrum. Michael lets his imagination control his hands as they dance across the white and black key. Pictures and images flash through his mind. He let his emotions fuel the notes, the song as he lets the music sweep him in a world of Oblivion.

The unrelenting pleasure he feels, the pain, the _freedom_. He lets it course through his body, his veins as he closes his eyes and loses himself within its cradling fingers.

* * *

Leaning against the doorway, Elsa stands, utterly transfixed. He’s been playing for some time with his back to her. She wonders when he’ll notice her, or if he’ll ever stop at all. She wouldn’t mind listening forever. She had come here with the intention of apologizing and checking up on him, and has instead found a young man pouring his secrets into a pianoforte.

She had stopped by his rooms first, only to find them vacant. Worry was just beginning to creep over her mind when she heard the most beautiful music she’s ever heard played in the castle.

Elsa listens, hypnotized, as the piano carries on. Then the music fades off, ending in a sharp clang of keys as though something about the song’s execution had frustrated the composer. Michael opened his eyes and finds his hands slightly shaking as his fingers gently brace themselves on the ivory keys. For all his observant experience, he doesn’t notice her.

The room has gone needle drop silent once more.

Elsa can only stare as his back as he sits. Even with the loose-fitting shirt, she can still make out the definition of the muscle laying beneath. The way they imprint themselves whenever he breaths, or how his raven-black hair almost shines blue in the moonlight. Gods, he is so beautiful.

She is so preoccupied in her own thoughts that she jumps when the piano bench suddenly screeches against the floor, a loud, awful _CLANK_ sounding as his fingers slap the piano keys, and he is halfway around the grand piano when she beholds him. She could have sworn his eyes were damp. “What are you doing here?” He glances to the door.

“I – I apologize if I interrupted.” She wonders at his discomfort as he turns red. It seems far too human an emotion from what she’s seen from him so far. “But you were playing so beautifully that I—”

“It’s fine.” He mumbles, running his hand through his hair.

“You like to play?” she asks.

“I do,” He is still red. She made him that uncomfortable? She fights against her jackrabbit heart. Though she may have caught him in a moment of vulnerability – to which a piece of her still feels guilty – she attempts at a gentle smile. She begins to step closer to the piano. “How’d you like the books?”

“They were very nice,” he says quietly. “They were wonderful, actually.”

“I’m glad.” Their eyes meet, and he retreats behind the back of the piano. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought herself to be the assassin!

“Where did you learn to play like that?” she asks, now before the piano, adjacent to where he stands.

“With the rebels.” Elsa isn’t sure if it’s the moonlight or a reflection of the piano’s polished surface, but she could’ve sworn the blue of his eyes seemed to glow, like iridescent sapphires.

“Did everyone have to learn?”

“Only the most elite; talked it up as nothing more than a necessary skill to infiltrate parties and gatherings of the higher class.”

“Is there anything you didn’t learn from the rebels?” Elsa asks. Of course, it’s a totally innocent question.

Michael shrugs, and she tries to not read too far into the gesture. “They became a foundation for me, especially after losing my parents.”

Foundation, not family. Because from what he’s told her, they could never replace his family. Not that they ever tried, and not that he ever wanted them to. No family would ever do that to each other. Her mind flashes to the scar on his right hand. “ _He gave me the choice of either letting him break my hand, or I do it myself._ ”

They never cared about any of them, not in the way that mattered; that would’ve made much more of a difference.

“ _I went to our blacksmith’s shop, took one of his heaviest hammers, and smashed my hand on the anvil._ ”

She couldn’t help it; her eyes wandered to the scarred hand draped loosely at his side. It was shaking, ever so slightly – unbeknownst to even. From what, she can’t tell.

No, all they cared about was how orphaned many men and women, and _children_ , they could train and use; exploit their weaknesses and mold them into killing machines. Even if his long-abandoned kingdom is better off now, even if their cause had been true, those leaders . . . they were a lie.

Elsa slowly sits on the piano bench, still warm from him. She wipes her sweaty palms on the skirt of her magenta nightgown. She says softly. “You love music.”

It is more of a statement than a question. She looks to him, her fingers hovering ever so slightly over the white keys. The unnerving stillness in his eyes abated, at least.

“Yes.”

“Even if it was something forced upon you?”

“Not one of the worst things.”

Elsa tries to ignore the pinch in her chest at his words. “From your playing, it seems a great deal more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she says, trying not to get lost in his strange, lovely eyes, “I don’t think anyone who plays like _that_ just _likes_ music. It seems like you have a soul when you play.” she dares to tease.

“Of course I have a soul. Everyone has a soul.” He bites his lip for heartbeat. “I dare say I love it more than love itself.”

Elsa doesn’t want to know why it hurts her heart when he says that. When he doesn’t say more, she clears her throat and asks as casually as she can: “On a different note, how are you and Anna getting along?”

Despite being trapped by that royal asshole prince – who, before Michael’s interjection, believed he was entitled to put his hands all over her body – she hadn’t missed how him and her sister were having a decent, if not pleasant conversation, if Anna’s smile was any indication.

Michael inches around the piano, coming closer to her, and her heart jumps a beat. “Fine. It’s nice to see she doesn’t hate me anymore.”

“I promise you, I don’t think she hated you at all. It was just fear.”

“Sometimes fear cannot be trusted.”

“Do you wish it were otherwise?”

He runs his hand along the rim of the piano as he takes another step closer, coming up on her right. Whether by practiced etiquette or because the space between them feels so intimate already, Elsa slides herself down the bench. “Well, who wants to be hated? Though I’d rather be hated than invisible. But it makes no difference.”

He isn’t convincing.

“You’re lonely?” She says it before she can stop herself.

“Lonely?” He shakes his head and finally, after all that coaxing, sits down on the bench next to her. Elsa fights against the urge to reach across the space between them to see if his hair was as silky as it looks. “I can survive well enough on my own — if given proper reading material. Though I won’t deny, it is nice to have some companionship.”

She looks to the piano keys, trying not to think about where he’d been only weeks before — and what that kind of loneliness might have felt like.

“And what was that piece you were playing so masterfully? It was so sad.”

He folds his hands in his lap. “It was a piece I learned on my own, in my own time whenever I could spare.”

Elsa blinks before casting her gaze down to the ivory keys, her fingers trickling a simple scale. Then her skin suddenly shivers when he purrs, “You weren’t nearly this chatty compared to this evening.”

Now it is her turn to blush as she snaps her gaze to him. She swallows as she finds his eyes narrowed in a mischievous expression that has warmth blooming in her cheeks, and . . . somewhere else . . .

“Well,” she clears her throat, “pardon me, but some drastic things _did_ happen only a few hours ago. And I only wanted to make sure you were alright.” Elsa snaps with a pout. “Which, you seem to be. Thankfully.”

“Barely.” Michael mutters.

When some of the light vanishes from his eyes, she couldn’t stop herself from reaching through the inches of space between them to brush her fingertips along his cheek. She almost sighs from how warm it feels against her fingertips, like the sun’s light on a fresh, spring afternoon.

He doesn’t pull from her touch, not even as she curls her fingers under his chin where she can feel the scratch of growing hair despite being freshly shaved. When he closes his eyes and leans into that touch, the feeling of his lips against her palm . . . Elsa was relieved the piano bench didn’t crack under the pressure of her magic.

When he looks to her, those stunning eyes rattle her breath.

His lips are so full . . .

Elsa didn’t know what to think as Michael leans in, further closing the distance between them –

Only to have his hand grab her own and peel it away from his face.

She didn’t realize how cold she was until his warmth was gone. How much she yearns to touch his face, to feel his _warmth_ –

It only worsens when he clears his throat and gets up from the piano bench. Her heart starts to hammer, another apology ready to burst from her lips.

No, he can’t walk away, not like this.

“Um,” he runs his hand through his silky hair again, stuffing the other hand in the pocket of his pants. “I should, get to bed. It’s been a long day.”

She doesn’t know what to say, her mouth can only open slightly, her lips near quivering for a touch of their own against his skin. His shoulders are so broad . . .

“Michael,” she manages to croak.

But he only answers with, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He then walks towards the doorway to the music room. He doesn’t look back once, not even as he turns left and out of sight.

The silence of the music room feels like she’s drowning.


	21. Chapter 21

He had to get away from her.

Had to get out of her touch, away from her scent, but not for the reasons she probably thinks right now.

As Michael briskly walks through the hallways to his suite, he sighs into his hands before dragging them through his hair.

She probably thinks she did something wrong, again.

Gods, he couldn’t even give her a proper goodbye.

His mind had been swarming, fogging with the need, the want . . . the drive to _touch_ her. To feel those soothingly gold fingers against his heated cheeks, his burning soul.

He was drowning in her snow-covered lilac scent, enough so that every inch of his body, every part of his mind, every muscle, every gods-damned vein wanted to feel her. To have her body pressed against his; to feel those rose-pink lips on his, to bury his hands in her hair . . .

He hates that he left her there – questioning herself again, wondering if she did the right thing.

But if she had seen what her touch did to him . . .

Another reason why he left, the truth would’ve been obvious if she had looked to the seat of his pants.

It was a bull-faced lie when he said he wasn’t lonely, and gods-damn it the queen saw right through it.

He didn’t realize how starved he’d really been for affection. For joy and light and love.

But there is a line with Elsa. A deep and long line that he cannot cross. He counts the reasons with each step he takes closer to his rooms.

Left: she’s a queen.

Right: he’s just a peasant, if broken down to the basics. He has no real home, no other clothes. He cant even call himself a mercenary.

Left: she has a castle and kingdom.

Right: he only has the clothes on his back.

He turns down the familiar corner leading to his rooms. His door is the second to last on the right. The castle feels as hollow and as silent as husk.

Left: she’s happy here; happy and whole and living.

Right: he’s barely chipped against the cold, hardened silence in his heart. Could he even return any affection? Would he even know how?

Left: she has everything.

Right: he has nothing. No dowry to give her, no land or gold or jewels. He’d just be a burden to her. Another mouth to feed.

She _is_ everything.

And he is nothing.

Nothing but a broken and battered orphan boy who can’t seem to fill the void in his heart no matter how much justice he brings to the world. Not matter how many criminals he throws into prison.

Even when he plunged his dagger into the king’s throat all those years ago, even as he held it aloft on that balcony that night for all to see – rebel and knight – he felt nothing.

If anything, he felt even emptier than when his parents were killed.

There was nothing left for him in that kingdom. Nothing left for him in the world, anymore.

He didn’t even go back to the cabin, knowing fully well where _exactly_ those two wooden crosses were, set at the head of two dirt mounds, both with bouquets of flowers, and carved words that are probably faded off by now.

_Beloved Mother_

_Beloved Father_

Michael makes it to his rooms, near flinging himself inside and shutting the door behind him with a slam that was louder than intended. The worn memory of that mid-summer day tugs at him, sucks him in.

_The soldier’s hand was the size of a dinner plate, the knuckles torn and scabbed from when they punched his father. Over and over and over._

_Both his parents kneeled before him, bleeding from so many places their clothes were soaked with it, their hands trembling as they kept them interlocked behind their heads. His father’s arm was broken, the joints near dangling beneath the skin; probably the only thing that’s holding them together. Broken, but the men had made him put his hands up anyway._

_Their front door was nothing more than splinters, the entire cabin ransacked. Every piece of their belongings, their memories had been broken, shattered, splintered or smashed._

_His cheeks were cold from the spring breeze tickling the stream of tears that flowed from his eyes. He’s tried to fight back, to fight for his parents, resulting in the blackened eye that now throbbed with every beat of his heart._

_The man’s grip was more than to just keep him restrained; within it was all the suppressed rage of losing three of his men to a “piece of rutting shit.”_

_Michael’s shirt and hands were stained with the blood of those men, and he even managed to get a good slice across this man’s face, deep enough that it will scar. But when the men started to converge onto him, his parents both pleaded with them to “Stop!” and to “Let him go! He’s just a child!”_

_“Confess!” The head guard bellowed as he paced before his parents._

_“We didn’t do anything –” his father barely finished the sentence before one of the cronies punched him in the face again._

_More blood._

_He can’t remember how long his father had been trying to tell them, trying to reason_

_But the next thing he saw was two more cronies hauling his father over to the tree stump where they would chop their wood for the fire._

_They shoved his father to his knees._

_“Dad,” he whimpered. More tears rolled down his face._

_His gaze flicked to his mother. To that beautiful, fierce face._

_“Stop!” his mother pleaded, blood dribbling from her swollen, chapped lips._

_One of the guards drew his sword._

_Another slammed his father’s head onto the tree stump._

_“Dad –”_

Michael blinks, the shimmering memory replaced by the muted glow of moonlight on the wooden floor.

He can’t even remember if his father confessed or denied, or if either one would’ve been a ruse to try and save Michael and his mother.

Not that any of it mattered.

Despite the cold floors offering some reprieve of his heated skin, Michael forces himself to stand up and walk to his bed.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.


	22. Chapter 22

Elsa had messed up.

She knew she did! _Incredibly_!

She doesn’t know what came over her, or what could’ve possessed her to reach out and _touch_ him!

At first, she thought things were okay, the way he leaned into her touch; how his warmth seemed to seep into her fingers . . .

But she just _had_ to lean in just those two inches, and he immediately retreated as if a plague had befallen her.

And then he left her; just left her there in the music room, not once looking back. The way he ran his fingers through his hair, she couldn’t tell if he was aggravated, or still embarrassed, or giving himself his own mental throttling.

Elsa couldn’t stop herself from tearing up after he left.

She stayed at that piano for another twenty minutes, hoping he would come back, but he never did.

She doesn’t know what she expected if he did come back, and the more the dwells on it, the more distinct the red in her cheeks would become. These thoughts occupied her as she finally left the music room and forced herself up the stairs into her rooms that felt way too big for her after that night.

And she confessed this much to Anna, as she sits across from her now on the sofa in the library. The low-lying wooden coffee table set in front of the couch holds their set of tea they were having as well as a large silver tray of desserts.

The grandfather clock posted in front of a column chimes that it’s ten o’clock in the morning. Anna’s hair is still looking like a chicken’s nest, but she quickly awakened when Elsa had near barged into her room this morning, begging her to wake up, that she needed to talk to her, and meet her in the library.

Still dressed in her pale green cotton nightgown, Anna it would seem, didn’t even spare the time to braid her hair before meeting Elsa down here. Elsa can at least smile at her sister’s loyalty.

“So, wait, you tried to kiss _him_ , or he tried to kiss _you_?” Anna clarifies as she sets her cup down on its sunflower painted saucer.

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters! It’s about whoever makes the first move! That’s how you know they like you.” She chirps.

Elsa shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know; it seemed like we were both toeing around the bush, at the point. I half expected him to stay behind the piano for the entirety of the conversation.”

“Well, it shows he’s somewhat comfortable around you. And you said he sat down without you insisting?”

“Verbally, at least.”

Anna purses her lips as she rests her chin on her knuckles, her legs folded beneath the skirt of her nightgown. Elsa can’t help but snicker. Here she is, nearing twenty-four and here she is gossiping with her sister about men. Although, she would be lying if she said some innate, feminine part of her was enjoying it. And, indeed, her sister’s cheeks were just as red as Elsa’s, her smile just as wide.

“But to reach out and to touch him?” Anna shrugs, indifferent. “Well, I guess it’s a good sign that he didn’t just smack your hand away. That would’ve been a clear signal.”

“But you don’t think I did anything wrong?”

“Oh, of course you did?”

Elsa pauses. “What?” She furrows her brows at her sister, another apology already forming inside her head if she sees Michael again. At least, if she ever gets brave enough to see him again. They might not have the biggest castle, but there are places she can avoid him.

“Look, Elsa, Michael clearly doesn’t seem like the kind of person to easily open up to people. Especially if it involves intimacy.”

Elsa pouts as she crosses her arms. “And how would you know this?”

“Because I see some similarities between him and Kristoff. He wasn’t the warmest person when we first met. But with trying to find you after setting off that eternal winter years ago – along with some other life and death situations – we got to know one another.”

“Well, if I have to have some deadly situations to get to know him, I think last night was a pretty good start.”

Now it’s Anna’s turn to pout. “My point is that it seems like it would be a personal marathon to try and get Michael to open up. He seems to have had a rough life.”

“Well, Kristoff was about as cold as the ice he sold, and yet he warmed up to you. And we still don’t know much about his life – at least I don’t.”

“That’s different.”

“I fail to see that difference.”

“At least Kristoff wasn’t involved in any violent, or criminal activity. And especially after he showed me to the trolls, and then they told me how sweet and nice he is –”

“Anna what is your point?” Elsa interjects.

“Michael not some odd commodity that you can gawk at!” Anna snaps, setting her saucer down before she spills her remaining tea. “He’s not some carnival exhibit, and you won’t use him as part of some unfulfilled desire for adventure and excitement! Which is undoubtedly why you chose to go see him yesterday.”

Elsa’s mouth falls open and she fiddles with a pillow squished between her arm and the couch. “Excuse me?” is all she manages.

Anna sighs in aggravation as she sprawls along the couch, her back resting against the arm. “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t realize why you went to see him last night? As someone who gave him _The Flame and the Flower_ to read, which suggests a rather fanciful mind that yearns for adventure?”

“I’m not looking for adventures,” Elsa mutters.

“Oh? The castle offers so much excitement that the presence of some rogue hero is nothing unusual? Nothing that would entice a young queen who’s been confined to her room all her life? And what does this ‘job’ suggest, for that matter? He’s already at your disposal as a personal guard. You think he’d want the entire kingdom to gossip about him, or worse, gossip about _you_ and who you’re bedding?”

Elsa blushes, hugging the pillow to her chest. “Who I share my bed with isn’t anyone’s business but my own. And even so, that’s – that’s not what I want.”

“Elsa,” Anna states. “you were _alone_ with him in the music room. A room that is in its own hallway, with one way in and one way out.”

Elsa tries her best to square her shoulders and hold her chin, but she ultimately fails in her voice as it comes out a mumble, “It’s not like that at all.”

“Then what else is it?”

“Anna, what point are you even trying to make? As far as I see it, Kristoff and Michael have some similarities – in that they were both off-putting in the beginning until we get to know them. But the only difference is that Michael has had a rougher life than him; even worse than us, if I’m being completely honest.”

“And I’m trying to say, because of that, he might not even _want_ to open up to anyone at all.” Anna says, leaning over to place her hand over Elsa’s, the queen completely unaware how white-knuckled they’ve become from gripping the corners of the pillow. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, or, exhausted trying to chase after him, when he doesn’t want it, for one thing, or he might not know how to treat you right. I admit, Kristoff wasn’t easy to understand, but he was still raised by good people. He never had to kill a king, or break his own hand, or . . . watch his parents die.”

To that, Elsa can’t argue. Though she doesn’t know the full story, Anna had told her about how Kristoff claimed it was only him and Sven for a long time, until he’d gotten adopted by the trolls. Before them, he wandered and worked with the ice harvesters. Though they seemed to depict him as more of an apprentice than a son.

“Look,” Anna yearns. “I don’t have much of a problem if you decide to pursue him. I just, don’t want you getting hurt because he doesn’t know to love anyone in return.”

Elsa nods. “I understand. I mean – if I even choose to pursue these, feelings. But this is all very disconcerting.”

Another shrug from Anna. “I won’t lie, it’d be nice to see a different side to him. Maybe see him smile.”

Elsa nods with a hum. “Do you think he meant what he said? About not having any friends?”

Her sister contemplates while grabbing a strawberry from the tray. “I don’t know. I’d like to think not. Why would anyone want to be alone, especially if you’ve just lost your parents? Being alone is the last thing anyone should do.”

The words strike Elsa harder than either of them imagined. She blinks and the velvet couch before her is replaced with the carpet of her old rooms; of a frozen floor and snowflakes suspended in the air. She blinks again, and she is back in the library. Anna seems to take notice, as she scoots herself closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know what you meant. If anything, it’s just all the more reason to at least befriend him.”

The doors to the library open as Anna is about to say something, and in comes Olaf, still wearing the berry colored throw blanket from the solarium in Michael’s suite. He’s humming to himself, skipping and hopping his way along until he notices Elsa and Anna. “Oh! Hi guys!” he chirps.

Elsa and Anna separate themselves, giving the snowman the space between them. “Olaf, what are you doing here this early?”

The little snowman hops up onto the couch, plopping himself atop the blanket. “Well, Sven is still sleeping, as is the rest of you, so I’ve decided to dedicate myself to joys of reading!”

“You have been getting better at it.” Anna says with a smile.

“I especially love the trivial facts! Such little things we never think about; like did you know high heeled shoes were originally created for men?!” Olaf giggles, snuggling himself into the blanket.

Elsa bites her lip in contemplation, but then she asks. “Olaf, I’ve been meaning to ask: What do you think about Michael?”

Olaf blinks at her twice before answering, “Well, speaking as a completely objective third-party observer with absolutely no personal interest in the matter, I think he’s a nice man. He really has a mastery over the _smolder_ expression. You know, it is a very difficult to master.”

“Do you think he’s a nice person?” Elsa asks.

“I think so. I mean I also think that he can be a dangerous man with a lot of emotional trauma, but his heart is in the right place. Even if it seems to be hard.”

“How do you mean?”

“Not like, a stone-cold killer man, but just something he uses to shield his heart from further emotional pain that could send him into a spiraling depression with so little hope of ever getting out.”

Elsa and Anna can only blink for a moment. Baffled.

Then the little snowman adds, “But bright side: he’s probably very protective, and if someone does manage to break past his icy façade, he’s probably just a big bundle of love that needs cuddles.”

As if to emphasize his point, Olaf twirls and cocoons himself in the throw blanket, flopping himself onto Anna’s lap with a giggle. Both sisters join, unable to resist the charm of the little snowman.

“So what do I do now?” asks Elsa.

“Don’t worry. After everything that’s happened, I’ve got the perfect person to help get Michael back into the spirit of things!” Anna says with an assuring smile.

When Elsa gives a questioning expression, her sister only waggles her brows.

* * *

“I’m telling you, it’s the perfect chance to just get out, stretch your feet, and we can have a little guy-time together!” Kristoff assures as he leans back, draping an arm across the back of the couch.

He is sitting next to Michael, having one cushion of space between them in the solarium. He was studying the runes from the temple, and the crime scene, going through old tomes and other scriptures to see if any matched. This one didn’t; but it is one of many scattered before him on the coffee table, spread between two tall stacks of books he pulled from the library earlier in the week.

This next morning, after his world nearly got engulfed by fire, needless to say Michael doesn’t feel like going outside, despite autumn’s breeze starting to waft its way into Arendelle.

His body had given a collective burst of pain when he attempted to sit up in bed a couple hours earlier. From his ears to his toes to his teeth, everything aches.

It’s like he’s been pummeled by a thousand iron hooves. His muscles feel so tender, his head throbbing.

He had intended to stay in his rooms all day as means of recovering, as well as spending time trying to find the origin of the runes that were at the temple.

That is until Kristoff came knocking on his doors, inviting himself him and for some reason insisting they talk a walk around the kingdom today. Get some fresh air.

“What brought on this sudden want?” Michael asks as he overlaps his notes with an old alphabet from a more eastern culture. They didn’t match.

Kristoff shrugs a little too nonchalantly. “I mean, come on, we’re two men against two women, and even before you came here, it was just me. It’s nice to have another guy around the castle. Know what I mean?”

Michael nods, setting down the paper and pulling a book from the stack. This one about an ancient alphabet from a southern continent. He thumbs through the pages until he finds the one that had the translation of the alphabet into the common language.

“So, what do you say? Let’s go, take a stroll. No mask, no cloak, and just wander the city.” Kristoff adds a friendly pat on the shoulder, stirring a grunt of pain from Michael. “Oh, sorry. Sorry. What do you say?”

Michael sighs, rubbing his shoulder. Gods, he feels so tired today. He doesn’t want to do anything, but at the same time, staying inside the stuffy castle almost makes him want to vomit again. He doesn’t know how he’ll make it through today, let alone Anna’s birthday party. Of which he still needs to ask about the official date. He makes quick work of rinsing off before climbing out of the tub.

Looking to Kristoff, the man still holding that silly smile, he just smiles and nods with a raise of his brows. Michael can’t help but chuckle. “Alright. Fine. Let’s go.” He says, clapping the book shut around his paper to hold his place.

He tosses the book onto the table as Kristoff jumps up with his fists saying, “Yes!”

Michael stifles more grunts as he pushes himself up from the couch, his legs aching like he’d ran a hundred miles. “Let me just wash up first.”

“Yeah, no problem. I need to go and get Sven anyway. I’ll see you in the courtyard!”

With that, he hurries himself out of the room, thankfully shutting the door behind him. Sighing to himself Michael runs his fingers through his hair, stiffly walking his way towards the bathroom.

He lost control of his magic yesterday, but that isn’t the source of his pain. No, the pain that has settled deep into his muscles . . . this is from the uncontrolled shifting he’d done. The gods know how many times he shuddered between one and the other.

Gods, immortality . . .

He’d felt it.

But it wasn’t like he had imagined. Perhaps it would’ve been different had that woman not overdone it with the runes, of which Michael is still salty about (and will stay salty about) for however long he wants.

Where did it come from?

What is he . . .?

He doesn’t let himself think about it as he closes the door to the bathroom. Bracing his hands on the sink, he grimaces at his reflection. He looks like shit, and feels like shit. Next to the sink, he notices his filthy clothes from yesterday. At least he seemed to care enough about not having the vomit on the carpet, seeing how he just left them in the garbage. Maybe he’ll just spare everyone the trouble and just burn them. Gods – he soiled himself.

He doesn’t let himself wallow in the humiliation as he draws a bath. Taking the sponge and lathering it with soap, he gently rubs it along his aching arms and legs.

Barely drying himself off, Michael walk over to the dresser with dripping hair, towel around his waist. Rummaging through, he pulls on a dark green tunic and brown pants, then pulling on his slippers. He’s about ready, until there’s a gentle knock on his door.

He can’t help the annoyed groan that escapes his lips as he slowly steps his way over. Placing his scarred hand on the gold handle, he tries to suppress his anger at Kristoff’s insistency, ready to assure him that he’ll be down _shortly_.

Pulling open the door, he instead finds the Snow Queen running her fingers down her braid, facing the opposite direction. A gift bag hangs at her elbow. Upon hearing the door open, she whirls around, about to say something, but she takes one look at him and gasps. “Great Mother and all her children.”

Michael’s smile, though weak, is genuine. He shrugs his shoulders. “I look worse than I feel.” A lie. His head is still pounding, and his face must be gaunt.

Elsa takes a step closer, and the stillness in it puts him on edge. Something in the way the queen is assessing him, the way her eyes travel up and down his body, seeing within him.

“You seem different.” She starts, the small flakes of snow in her hair twinkle in the light of the sconces.

Still he gives another nonchalant shrug before heading inside despite the heat of his cheeks protesting otherwise. “I suppose.”

Elsa follows on heeled feet, closing the door quietly behind them. “No, the way you walk and stand. That look in your eyes.” Michael continues to walk back towards the wardrobe, but the queen continues to follow and persists. “Are you okay?”

“Trying to be.” He says flatly.

Elsa gives him a long stare. Michael watches as her nostrils flare delicately while a belt of two daggers about his waist. But to his surprise, Elsa says nothing as she walks around the bed and sits on the divan at the end. She runs her hands along her thighs before folding her hands in her lap. “Where are you going?”

“Into town with Kristoff.” Michael says as he pulls his boots from the wardrobe.

“Oh! Wait.” Elsa chirps as she stands up. She walks over and hands him to bag. “Here. I noticed how your boots looked, and you kept complaining about your feet.”

Though touched but bewildered, Michael reaches into the bag and pulls out a shoe box. He can’t help but smile towards the queen as he tosses the bag onto the bed, sitting with the queen on the divan. Opening the box, he pulls out a fresh pair of black leather boots. The soles were thick, likely made for a working man, though nothing like the boots he wore with his suit. Those had been specially made for him back in the rebellion, and he planned to wear them until he couldn’t anymore. They’re one of a kind, in their own way.

The laces were thick, the leather near reflective it’s so shiny. He knew these boots weren’t made for stealth, and he had the distinct feeling that Elsa knew that too. Still, the gesture is much appreciated.

“Thank you, but how did you get my size?”

Elsa shrugs. “I took a gamble. Anna said that Kristoff was a size twelve, and with the different builds between you two, I just went down one size.”

Michael notions her to scoot over, which she does, sitting next to her on the divan. He tries not to think about last night – about her cool fingers against his skin, still warm like a candle beneath his skin. He could feel it breathing inside him, slumbering with deep, even breaths.

Slipping his feet into the boots, he lines up his heels and secures the laces. Standing up and flexing the toe, he hums with pleasure. “Not bad.”

“They fit?” Elsa asks with a surprised tone.

Michael shrugs his shoulders. “A little loose but it’s not the worst thing.”

Indeed, he’s worn those too-tight boots for so long he’s surprise himself that his toes hadn’t changed shape, or that his toenails weren’t ingrown.

“Are you sure? I can take them back and get a different size.” Elsa says, springing up from her seat.

Michael walks over to the full-length rosewood mirror and examines the boots. In the reflection, Elsa walks up behind him. “They’re fine. I promise.” He turns around and pats her shoulder. “Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

Elsa nods, her cyan eyes briefly scanning him from head to toe before she clears her throat. “So, what are you going into town for?” she asks as she turns around and sits back on the divan.

“Kristoff came to me and just suggested we take a walk outside. Fresh air, he claims.”

“Ah,” the queen says with a grin. “And you agreed?”

“I did. If only to fulfill a brief errand I need to run.”

The queen straightens. “What errand?”

Michael pulls on a cotton jacket over his tunic, having seen the way the trees were bending at the wind today. “I wrote a letter for two of my former, rebels. They’re more educated on magic than I am.”

Reminding himself, Michael walks over to his desk and plucks the letter from where he left it at the center. He tucks it into the inner pocket of his jacket and heads for the door.

Elsa follows close on his heels. “You asked them to come _here_?”

Michael opens the front door to his suite, motioning Elsa outside. She complies, whirling around the meet as he steps after her. “No, I didn’t ask them to come to the castle specifically, just if they could come to Arendelle.”

He begins to walk, Elsa falling in line next to him, matching every stride despite her heeled shoes. He makes sure not to make it seem like he’s rushing to get away from her, he was actually planning on telling her about it – if she deigned to see him. “How do you know them?” she asks.

Michael stuffs his hands in his jacket pocket. “We were part of an elite group, back in the day. Just the three of us.”

A heartbeat of silence. “Were they your friends . . .?”

Michael ponders, keeping his gait casual. He purses his lips, his mind thinking back to the rainbow-haired shifter and the red-eyed shadow walker. The wild smiles and drinks shared, the many occasions they saved each other’s asses. It only hurts his heart more when thinking about how he hasn’t kept in contact with them. He wonders if they’ll even bother to answer his letter.

“In a way, I guess. They were certainly the only people I trusted out of the entire company.” He admits. His brows twitch for a moment when catching the queen’s face flick between envy and reprieve.

“Were they magical, like me?” Elsa asks, lacing her fingers together, her thumb rubbing along her knuckles in that way she does when nervous.

They reach the stairs. “Yeah, they were. One was a shape-shifter and the other was a shadow walker.”

The queen’s eyes light up and a tone of urgency overtakes her voice. “What’s that?”

Michael knows what she means and shrugs a little too casually himself. “It’s hard to explain, but he sort of had this way of, merging into the shadows – even the thinnest sliver of them. He actually taught me everything I know about stealth.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

He notices how her shoulders seem to relax at the mention of the ‘he.’ “Not many people have; being among the rebels, you get exposed to all kinds of magic. I’ve seen a lot, and yet I’m not even sure I fully saw or understand what else is out there. The kinds of magic and where they derive from.”

They reach the bottom of the stairs, heading into the entryway. Elsa is quiet long enough for him to cast a glance at her. Her eyes are wide, her breathing seemingly fast.

He places a hand on her shoulder, near startling her from her trance. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Oh, yes, I – um, I just . . .” She shakes her head and takes a deep, steadying breath. “You don’t know what it means to me to hear that there are others like me, out there. That I’m not the only one.”

No accusations, just stating a fact. Pure jubilance at the life-changing statement he just dropped at her feet. He might not fully understand magic itself, but what she fails to realize is that he _does_ understand where she’s coming from.

To be locked in your rooms for years, thinking . . . wondering why you’re different. How you haven’t met someone else that’s like you? Wondering if you’re truly the only one in the entire world?

Not having someone to understand. Someone to talk to. That he can understand. Probably more if he were to dig deep enough. But she still seems on edge about last night, not that he blames her.

Before he can stop himself, he says, “I do understand.”

Those beautiful cyan eyes look up to him. “Do you?”

Michael finds himself taking a step closer to her. “Yes. It might not be from the same root, but it branches to the same meaning.”

They’re close enough that her snow-covered lilac scent reaches his nose, a gentle caress to his mind.

“Where do your roots come from?” she asks quietly.

With equal quiet, he says, “Loneliness.” The queen only stares at him, blinking with those long-fanned lashes. He can’t stop his eyes from wandering to her lips. “That constant wondering if anyone will ever love me, if I can ever love in return.”

Something shifts in the queen’s eyes, her eyebrows twitching for a second, but they stay in their place. They’re close enough now to share breath.

“Or if I’ll just be alone and wandering for the rest of my days.”

“By choice?”

“By force.”

Elsa blinks, taking a half-step back to wring her fingers again. “So, if you were given the choice, would you stay? Would you, settle down?”

Michael looks out the windows peering into the courtyard, to the open castle gates and across the stone bridge to the town beyond. “Yeah. I would. I would love to, actually. But it’d be a hard habit to break.”

“How do you mean?”

As the queen steps up to his side again, he looks down at his scarred hand, at the callus spots peppering across his palm and knuckles. “After we won the rebellion, after we were disbanded, some of the soldiers were able to settle down, to just stop their trained habits, their routines. But there are others, like me, who just can’t let it go. Who can’t sit still.” He looks to the sky, to the fluffy clouds. “I’ve been moving for the last eleven years; never sleeping in the same place twice and carefully covering my tracks. Not because I was being pursued but, because it’s all I know.”

“You never went back to your parent’s home?” Elsa mumbles.

Without taking his eyes off of the horizon, he says, “Why? There’s nothing left . . . nothing for me there.”

“You’ve never really had a solid home?”

Leaning his hip against the sill of the widow, he leans on his palm. The full weight of the thought, of the fact hits him harder than a ton of bricks. He stumbles slightly, as if he actually got struck, blinking with the realization as he croaks. “No.”

The queen must’ve seen something in his expression, because her hand suddenly lays atop his own, as gentle as a moth. He looks to her, her big round eyes twinkling. “You could have a home here. There’s a place for you . . . in Arendelle.”

He chuckles, a low and quiet sound. He couldn’t help himself.

But he blinks back the sting in his eyes. “I’ve never been offered that before.”

Now the queen holds his hand in hers, giving them a soft but reassuring squeeze. Her eyes have suddenly become so serious it sends a chill spidercrawling up his spine. “I mean it, Michael. There’s a place for you here.”

Another chuckle breaks past his lips, the very last bit of it choked on a breath. His wraps his arms around Elsa and he presses his forehead to her shoulder, his body trembling slightly. She strokes a hand through his silken hair – the gesture so easy, so natural.

“Thank you.” He whispers into her shoulder. “Thank you so much for that.”

“Of course.” She states. As if there’s no room for debate on the subject.

Michael pulls back sniffing and laughing to himself as he wipes his eyes, if only to fight the embarrassment. Elsa’s cool, smooth fingers grasp his with that gentle touch, tugging one hand away from his face, the other wiping away the moisture with her thumb.

It felt like the caress of a winter wisp. She leans in, brushing her mouth against his heated cheek. He closes his eyes at the whisper of a kiss, at the hunger that ravages him in its wake, that might ravage Arendelle.

A sound draws their attention out the window once more, and they find Kristoff walking with Sven towards the door. They’re completely unaware of the two, allowing them to create a respectable distance just as Kristoff pops open the door and peers inside.

“Oh, there you are!” he tweets. “I was beginning to think you fell back asleep. Hi Elsa.”

The queen spares a smile and wave as Michael turns to the Ice Master. “No, but I was certainly thinking about it. You mind if we stop by the post office? I need to mail a letter.”

“Yeah, no problem. I actually know the perfect route that’ll bring us right by it, with a ton of sights.”

Kristoff continues to talk as Michael follows him out the front doors. Elsa it a couple of steps behind them this time, her heels quieter on the wood. “You two be careful.” She says as Michael takes the first step down.

He turns around and looks to her with a genuine, if still small, smile. “Aren’t we always?”

The smile she returns is so beautiful.

Michael spares her another wave before jogging to the inner most set of gates to meet with Kristoff. The doors close soundlessly behind them.


	23. Chapter 23

Despite his aching muscles, Michael is enjoying himself as he walks with Kristoff through Arendelle’s Square, the salty air of the fjord whispering through his hair and into his nose. The sun it still shielded behind some of the roofs, but Michael can already tell it’s going to be a rather humid day.

Perfect.

He tries not to think about it too much, focusing more on the cool ocean breeze. As they stroll throughout the neighborhood, Michael casts his glance towards the clock tower set down an avenue. It’s almost eleven; they’ve only been out for half an hour, the soreness in Michael’s legs having been warmed from the bloodflow of walking.

He dropped off his letter at the post office, eager to see how long it’d take to get to his comrades with the magic enchantments he’d written. Basic messenger spells written around the border of the paper in invisible ink that’ll guarantee it getting to them faster than any courier on foot or by horse.

They turn down a corner into Arendelle’s shopping district, he can’t help but admire all the bits and pieces of the window displays that built the personality of the businesses beyond. This avenue is where all the fine things in the world are sold and bartered. Jewelers, hatters, clothiers, confectioneries, cobblers among many other things. Elsa had told him businesses stay open all year round, as vibrant as they are in the summer. Still, Michael felt a small sympathy for those who had to shovel away any snow that would fall – with the slick sidewalks and slushy cobblestone streets.

For now, all the citizens poured in and out of the various shops and studios, some perched on ladders to string up drooping garlands and banners of sunflowers between the lampposts, some sweeping gathered clusters of dirt and pebbles from their doorsteps, all eagerly preparing for the princess’s birthday.

Part of him is baffled at the bustle; as if the demon attack at the ball didn’t happen. Didn’t matter. He supposes it’s a good thing, how no one dwindles on such things in this kingdom, but at the same time . . . it gives a perception of naivety. How some people can be so calm, and still so free in times of fear and peril.

Michael takes a sharp inhale through his nose, the salty air tickling his nostrils.

Kristoff is quiet at his side but smiles with content as he watches Michael take in the sights, sounds, and smells. He attempts small talk as they crossed the bridge into town, but he took one glance at Michael’s wandering eyes and just shrugged.

It didn’t occur to the rouge until now that this is his first time browsing the city without his leather armor; without the mask and cowl. Let alone on the streets and not on the rooftops. He didn’t realize what he’d been missing, but the roofs still provided a better viewpoint, better navigation.

Which also means he isn’t ashamed to browse the many shops they pass, pausing in front of every one that interested him – which was many – and Kristoff, thankfully, didn’t seem to mind.

Kristoff _did_ seem to mind, however, how almost every woman they passed seemed to admire Michael.

And frankly, the rogue rebel agreed.

As they pass by another trio of young women, of whom gave Michael shy waves and schoolgirl giggles, Kristoff mumbles to him, “I see why you wear the mask.”

Michael can’t help but grin. “A blessing and a curse.”

He was always aware of his looks and trained charm; it was another weapon in his arsenal, one he kept as honed as any blade.

In fact, for so long he only viewed it as another weapon for so long, outside of its use, none of it really mattered to him. And it wasn’t one of his better skillsets, among the rebels. It still sickens him to this day; how he had to seduce a duke’s daughter, or flirt with a noblewoman to get information. Most of the time they were single, but there was always one who wanted a reprieve from her ‘selfish and pompous husband.’

The way his hands had to grope their body, trace his tongue along their skin.

It’s not something he’s proud of, and never will be. He felt as dirty and as low as any courtesan.

Sven huffs at their side, drawing Kristoff’s attention away while Michael stops in front of a jewelry store window. The bull had crossed the street to a vegetable stand, eyeing a large bunch of carrots tied together. The eager bull licks his lips.

“Sven! No! You can’t eat that!” The iceman hollers as he runs across the street to stop the reindeer.

Hands in his pocket, he peers down at a gorgeous necklace resting upon a velvet display bust. It has three diamond-shaped charms of blue topaz pointing downwards, a polished amethyst connects the precious gems to a diamond-accented chain. The design reminds him of the bottom half of a snowflake. Angling his head, he admires the sparkle the necklace gives, so similar to Elsa and her many gowns and, even herself.

There’s movement behind the glass and Michael peers up to see the jeweler setting out a velvet T-bar filled to the rim with pearl bracelets. The stout balding man spares a friendly wave to Michael, of which he returns with a dip of his chin, doing his best to smile in return.

Most of the vendors and shop owners of his old kingdom – especially the ones in the wealthier districts – were pretentious, chasing away potential customers if they weren’t planning on buying anything on the spot. Michael waits for the man to point to any of the items with an eager nod, and when he shakes his head no, readies to see the man sneer and scowl at him to move on.

But the man never does. After Michael gives his nod, simply slips back behind the curtain and into his shop. Michael blinks for a second, baffled. This kingdom is so different.

He hears the breathing before he feels the clap on his shoulder, and he turns to find Kristoff with an arm over Sven’s shoulders, the bull still peering at the pergola of food. “Hey!” Kristoff chirps with short breath. “Sorry about that. What are you looking at?”

“Oh, just window shopping.”

“Looking for something for Elsa?” he asks as he tugs Sven closer. The bull groans with yearning.

“Kind of.” He admits. It was the first thing he thought of when he laid eyes on the piece.

“Are you going to get it?” Kristoff asks, elbowing Sven hard enough to get him to focus.

Michael shrugs. “I have to see how much it is.”

“Elsa paid you, right?”

Indeed she did. More than he would’ve ever expected. She delivered the payment the night before the suitor’s ball; it was heavy enough that Michael knew the majority of the coins were gold. He tried to turn her down, insisting he was just doing his job. Then she insisted a job must be paid and slapped the coin purse into his hand without further argument.

She knew he was never into a job for money, it was a last thought. And he didn’t expect to get anything . . . he never did.

Though he didn’t say it to her, the gesture was sweet, and appreciated.

Even so, Michael was never one to spend his money freely. With the rebels, or even with his parents, he never felt the need to spend on himself, his father always telling him to buy for the family – primarily food and clothes, occasionally a wood axe or spoon.

They weren’t poor, but they were country folk, relying on his father’s hunting to trade and make money. They only bought what they needed.

“I’m sure Elsa wouldn’t mind you spending the money _she_ gave you on something for _her_.” Kristoff drawls.

“Maybe, but she may also say to spend it on myself.” Michael laughs.

Kristoff smirks. “You do know that they’re well-off, don’t you? You could fill a bathtub with those things”— he jerks his chin toward the egg-sized sapphire in the window of the jewelry shop — “and barely make a dent in their accounts.”

Michael knew. He’d seen the lists of assets after curiosity urged him to see how much he was getting from the whole sum. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the enormity of a royal’s wealth. It confirmed to him that Elsa was overpaying . . . by a lot.

It didn’t feel real, those numbers and figures. Like it was children’s play money.

“You think I should get something for Anna? Her birthday is coming up.” Michael asks.

Kristoff nods with a confident grin. “I’ve already got something planned. But I know she’ll appreciate the gesture.”

No need to mention that it _would_ be nice to have something to establish the level playing field between them. He knew it probably took her a lot to approach him and apologize, so a small present for her wouldn’t be too far out of the question. But Michael also knew not to get her something too over-the-top; god forbid he outshines Kristoff.

“Any idea what she’d like?”

The shrug Kristoff gives is near defeated, but the assured light didn’t leave his eyes. “Not going to lie, it’s hard to shop for her and Elsa. What can you give them that they don’t already have?”

“An age-old question.” Michael laughs. He’s already moving for the glass front door, a silver bell ringing merrily as they enter.

The shopkeeper is wide-eyed but beaming as Michael points to the piece, and swiftly lays it out on a black velvet pad. She makes a sweet-tempered excuse to retrieve something from the back, granting the men privacy to examine it as they stand before the polished wood counter.

“For Elsa.” is all Michael says.

“It’s perfect,” Kristoff assures, the stones of the necklace fracturing the light and burning with their own inner fire.

Michael runs a finger over the cool silver settings. In his periphery he can see Kristoff furrow his brows. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t do this very often?”

Michael shrugs, not taking his eyes off of the glittering piece. “I’ve just never felt the need to buy anything . . . for myself, or for anyone else.”

A bit of an understatement. They had a small farm, nothing too big beyond a couple crop plots and his mother’s herb garden. But they made do, and they were happy. His father never really enjoyed city life: the noise and the smells and the people. And Michael didn’t really blame him – even if it was a small pain to travel to the town to trade in addition to bartering with anyone. Once he was old enough to learn how to hunt and start pitching in, he earned a small allowance from whatever they earned.

He never spent any of it, always kept it just in case they needed it. It felt so selfish to spend money on himself when it could be used to better the family.

“I get it.” Kristoff says, his tone softening. “I didn’t really get Anna anything the first birthday I spent with her.”

Michael’s eyes cut to him. “Why?”

“I didn’t know what to get her. And with what I could afford . . . even as ‘Ice Master,’ even with Elsa writing me checks . . . it felt, weird.”

Fair enough.

“All I really did was tell her that I love her, and she liked it.” Michael chuckles. “I think it was one of the first times I told her, so it was special in that regards.”

Michael hums to himself. The jeweler returns a moment later, and Michael hands over the total in gold coins, trying not to cringe at the enormous sum of money that just disappeared with a stroke of a golden pen.

“Well, I don’t think she’ll appreciate it if _I_ tell her I love her,” Michael says as they strode into the crammed Square and edge around a red-painted cart selling cups of ice-cold pink lemonade, “so do you have any idea what she might like?”

Kristoff ponders for a moment, running his fingers through his sandy blonde hair. “She likes sandwiches.”

Michael snorts. “Okay, look if you’re not going to help –”

Suddenly, shrill incessant ringing fills his head.

One minute, he was walking down the busy avenue with Kristoff. One minute, he was just trying to ignore his aching muscles and throbbing head. One minute, he is trying not to drown in the weight of his magic that threatens to drown him in that too-familiar black sea.

The next, his hears hollow out, the ground rips from beneath him, chunks and pieces of cobblestone rain down, people scream, blood sprays, fear scents the air, and he is twisting, lunging for Kristoff –


	24. Chapter 24

The world has been tipped on its side.

Or maybe it’s because he lays sprawled on the wrecked street, debris and shrapnel and _body parts_ around him.

But Michael keeps down, stays arched over Kristoff, who might have been screaming –

That shrill ringing won’t stop. It drowns out every other sound. Coppery slickness fills his mouth – blood. Pale dust coats his skin.

Every trained instinct in him screams to “ _Get up_.”

Or maybe he’s actually screaming it, but his body refuses to listen.

He can feel his stomach drop, or maybe it’s his magic jostling from the from the explosion, but he can feel the warmth of a healer’s golden glow spread from his heart to the rest of his body. Assisted by adrenaline, apart from the shrieking in his ears, he doesn’t think he’s hurt.

Shit, he doesn’t know what to think.

Something breaks past his shock, breaks through the ringing, the screaming, the shrieking and his hands wrap around Kristoff’s shoulders. “ _Get up_.”

He feels his throat scrape from his own voice, but Kristoff thrashes against him, reaching for –

For Sven.

Michael looks ahead and finds the reindeer laying on his side. “ _Kristoff, get up_.” Michael orders.

The iceman obeys, running and half-tripping over his own feet to get the reindeer. He let the man look over the bull, tears of relief flooding Kristoff’s eyes as he mumbles, “He’s alive. He’s alive.”

“We need to get to the castle gates.” Michael orders, palming two fighting knives he kept hidden in his new boots. The only weapons he brought into town. Everything else was up in his rooms.

 _Shit, shit, shit_.

He looks over his shoulder to Kristoff as Sven starts to swim back to consciousness. Michael looks back towards the avenue, looking past the chipped street, past the splattered blood, past the smoke and screaming and agony.

Nothing else goes off, but the chaos ensues as people run and scream for their loved ones, or for shelter, anything.

He doesn’t know if they should herd them into the castle courtyard, they’d be nothing more than fish in a barrel if the perpetrator is still out there.

But he can’t just leave the people out in the open.

Michael looks over his shoulder to Kristoff who’s lugging a wobbling Sven to his feet. They’re two blocks from the castle, from the gates. Guards are already flooding the streets, two of them immediately helping Kristoff and Sven. Michael hurries over to one of the guards and says with grit teeth, “I’m going after them. Keep the sisters and him in the castle, gather as many of the villagers as you can.”

Without argument, to his surprise, the guard nods and hollers the orders to rest of the guards. Across the way, Kristoff’s eyes find his.

“No—” he mouths.

Michael only shakes his head and turns, sprinting in the direction of the bomb’s source.

Back into the fray.

He’s managed to pick up a couple of lances from the dead guards, a sword from another.

As he sprints through the chaos, the smoke thickens, and the screams don’t stop. His feet splash in puddles of blood, the coppery tang filling his mouth until he can taste it. He spits out a mouthful of tainted saliva.

He can’t help anyone trapped under debris, he can’t stop, can’t try to help.

No, he can only shout with endless focus, “ _Get to the gates_! _Get to the gates_!”

As he heads closer to the source of the explosion, he can see the smoke funneling towards the base of the clock tower. He finds a small vendor with the carved wooden sign reading “Oaken’s Cloakens” where he snatches one of many hideously patterned and does his best to wrap it like a cowl around his head.

It’s better to have it as the smoke starts to surround him, the screams growing distant. Least he’ll be able to have some kind of shield against the flames. The heat is horrible, but worse than the heat is the smoke, which threatens to suffocate him at any moment

He could put these out if he really wanted to; if he really tried.

But he can’t try.

He can’t risk it.

He doesn’t even really know what kind of magic he has, apart from the healing. He could feel that golden magic stitching his wounds together, but it’s a slow process. Especially if it’s still exhausted from the magical tantrum yesterday. He’s even more grateful for the adrenaline keeping the pain at bay. Otherwise he might be too incapacitated to do anything.

He reaches the base of the clock tower, finding bigger dents and larger chunks of cobblestone scattered throughout. A patch of black, with a size he doesn’t want to measure, claws its way up some of the houses. It looks like the explosion went off in the middle of the street, thirty feet away from the Arendelle flag monument. Somehow the black and purple piece of fabric still sways in the breeze.

He slows his feet as he approaches, doing his best to swallow some of his coughs, the smoke having broke past his knitted veil.

Looking all around, ignoring that he’s stepping in someone else’s blood, ignoring what he thinks might be intestine floating about the gutter, Michael prowls through the smoke.

It’s a bad idea. He could get surrounded.

The screams of the terrified citizens feel far away now, and he can only hope they’re all gathering in the courtyard. Some guards will be out here soon. He needs to find who did this.

He’s made it to the flag monument without anything other than traces of fabric, stone, brick. Trying to find what could’ve caused the explosion is like a needle in a smoky haystack.

In a matter of minutes, his throat and nose are burning. The coughing begins soon after and his lungs begin to feel as if they are actually being cooked. Discomfort turns to distress until each breath sends a searing pain through his chest.

Just as he’s about to quit and go help the citizens –

He pauses. He looks down at his feet, at the cobblestone. He blinks, thinking the smoke has messed with his vision, but –

Beneath the black-stained stones, he can see smears of purple. Swiping with his foot, the black dust wisps away too reveal the curved purple stain. His blood runs cold as he follows the trail, his feet sweeping left and right.

When he’s made a full circle – a perfect, full circle – he follows more lines that work their way inwards, bisected and branching into more and more lines.

More runes, matching the ones from the last murder. Only this time, Michael’s insides turn to water as he finally realizes –

These runes are made for summoning.

He recognizes the similar concept, having seen enough rebel mages summon creatures he doesn’t even want to remember. Everything from a simple elemental golem, to creatures that seemed like they were pulled from the deepest pits of hell.

It would make sense if someone – that woman – is summoning these things to seed fear into the citizens. As it would appear she’s now dropping the whole Inferno Assassins bullshit.

As he tries to memorize the organization of the runes, he catches movement in his left periphery.

Michael whirls, drawing the lance, and blocking just as the assassin’s sword swipes for his head.

He pushes him off, jabbing the man in the stomach to further their distance.

But it isn’t an assassin that greeted him.

It isn’t even human . . .

Breathing heavy, Michael could feel a warmth pooling on the seat of his pants as the creature’s thin lips stretch wide from ear-to-ear in a horrid expression of mirth. Its fangs are bent, looking more like insect pincers, the bottom jaw lined with smaller teeth that look needle sharp. Its pale skin is pulled taut, emphasizing the pointed, bony knobs of its spine; its hands ending with long curved, flesh-shredding claws.

Its eight depthless eyes are filled with hunger – endless hunger. Its slitted nostrils sniff twice. Its scream is so shrill makes his blood run cold.

His composure is lost. Terror rips a white-hot trail through his body, and his focus narrows into a tunnel, his heartbeat as fast as a jackrabbit.

He doesn’t even have time to run.

The creature lunges, as swift and deadly as an adder.

Michael darts back, dodging each swipe of those lethal nails. For his throat, for his face, for his guts. Back, and back, circling around the pillar.

Michael jabs with the lance, and the creature sidesteps him, only to slash with its nails, right at Michael’s neck.

He spins aside, but the nails graze his skin. Blood warmed his neck and shoulders.

The creature is so damn fast. This isn’t just some mindless demon. No, this is a creature who is used to being at the top of the food chain. Who isn’t used to something biting back.

Could its summon have caused the explosion . . .? The things he faced before, they all shared a sort of primal instinct. No thought but the need to satisfy their taste for blood and living flesh.

But this one seems to have a fighting style –

It feints left and slashes right.

Michael ducks and rolls aside.

The brick wall shudders as those claws gouge four lines deep into the stone.

The creature hisses. Michael makes to drive the head of the lance into its spine; the creature lashes out with a hand and wraps it clean around the blade.

Purple blood wells, but the creature’s jaw unhinges and bores down on the blade until it snaps into three pieces.

 _Gods above_.

Michael has the sense to go in low, drawing a dagger, but the creature is already there — and ringing in his ears begins anew as the creature’s other hand drives up into his gut.

The air knocks from him in a whoosh, but Michael keeps his grip on the dagger, even as the creature pounces on him, pinning him to the street.

The stone shudders against the blow, and Michael’s head cracks, agony arcing through him, but —

Its jaw unhinges and Michael can see those fangs dripping with venom. Michael manages to bring the wooden piece of the lance up to block the oncoming jaws. The creature repeatedly attempts to chomp, Michael careful as the venom drips onto his shirt.

He rams his knee up into the creature’s sternum, earning a blood curdling scream; amplified as he takes advantage of the stun and drives his blade between the fifth and third rib.

The creature rears back, Michael slamming the wood into the creature’s head so hard that bone and wood crack.

Rushing to his feet, Michael swings downward as the creature whirls, its back legs twisting beneath while its front arms gouge lines into the cobblestones.

Michael squeezes air into his body. Move—he has to keep moving.

He pulls the second lance from his back, intending to swipe with the dagger if he can get past the creature’s guard. House to house, he retreats, rolling and ducking and dodging. The lance is an extension of his arms, spinning and twirling across his back, between his hands, his dagger swiping and whistling as he continues to aim for skin.

The creature swipes and slashes, slamming into every brick wall, a force of nature in its own right.

And then back around, again and again, house after house absorbing the blows that should have shredded his face, his neck. Michael slows his steps, let the creature think he is tiring, growing clumsy—

It works, as the creature hisses, making to tackle Michael to the ground. He narrows his focus, holds his breath in the seconds it takes the chuck the dagger forward.

It shoots like a steam of silver, landing home in the creature’s eye, burying to the hilt.

Michael rushes the creature, dropping low at the last second, he slides along the broken street, swiping the creature’s feet out with the base of the lance. Spinning the weapon, he hooks one of the legs, twisting it with all his strength.

He grunts with satisfaction at the creature’s wail as he dislocates its knee.

Sweeping to his feet, he spins the lance once more before driving point deep into the creature’s back, straight over the heart. It wails some more, its cries ringing his ears and sending goosebumps across his skin.

Anger briefly seizes him, his eyes going red and before he knew it, he lifts his foot, and drives all his strength into his foot as he stomps the creature’s head into the street. He bites back the bile in his throat as he hears the cracking of the skull, the creature choking and gargling on its own blood.

Two more vicious stomps and he feels the creature grow still. He still waits a minute before removing his foot and the spear from the creature’s back.

As he catches his breath and swallows the tightening in his throat, Michael turns and watches as the creature’s body suddenly darkens to a thundercloud grey.

He walks around to its front, cringing at the indent in its skull, the milky gaze of the dead.

As if exhaled from the breath of hell’s guardian, the creature’s body darkens and darkens until it is silhouetted, then slowly crumples in on itself into ash.

A phantom wind churns the ash like silk in water. The dark smoke between the stained bricks grows, swirling. It is colder, too. Cold and dry.

A strange, dead air pushes against his ears again, a high-pitched ringing wending itself into his head.

And then he sees her. The woman standing at the base of the monument.

He glimpses only a flash of pale skin, night­dark hair, unfathomable beauty, and those deep, glowing amethyst eyes, and the whistling of the lance as he launches it at her —

Blackness. A wave of it, slamming down on him.

Not oblivion but actual dark, as if she threw a blanket over the two of them.

The ground felt grassy, but he – can’t see it. Can’t see anything. Not beyond, not to the side, not behind. There was only him and the swirling black.

Michael draws his second dagger, biting down on a curse as he scans the dark. Whatever she is, despite her shape, she isn’t mortal.

In her perfection, in those glowing eyes, there is nothing human.

Blood tickles his upper lip — a nosebleed. The pounding in his ears begins to drown out his thoughts, any plan, as if his body is repulsed by the very essence of whatever this thing is. The darkness remains, impenetrable, unending.

 _Stop_. _Breathe_.

But someone is breathing behind him. Is it the woman, or something else?

The breathing is louder, closer, and a chill air brushes his nose, his lips, licking along his skin. Running — running is smarter than just waiting. He takes several bounding steps that should have taken him past the flag monument and towards the edge of the square, but—

Nothing. Only endless black and the breathing thing that is closer now, reeking of dust and carrion and another scent, something he hasn’t smelled for a lifetime but could never forget, not when it had been coating that room like paint.

Oh, gods. Breath on his neck, snaking up the shell of his ear.

He whirls, drawing in what might very well be his last breath, and the world flashes bright. Not with clouds and chipped streets. Not with a set of guards waiting nearby. The yard . . .

This yard . . .

His mother was screaming. Screaming like a teakettle. There was blood running through the grass like a red stream, blood that Michael refused to believe was his father’s. Even as his head dropped and rolled along the ground, landing just an inch away from his toes.

The world had hardened and ebbed; the fire and smoke of their burning home barely reaching him. he thought it was merely his mother burning extra logs for their dinner that night.

He could still feel the wetness of the rain and blood on him, permeating his knees, his clothes. He couldn’t tell which was which anymore.

And that smell—not just blood, but something else . . . “This is not real,” Michael says aloud, backing away from the tree stump on which he is standing like a ghost. “This is not real.”

But there were his parents, sprawled on the ground, their throats sliced ear to ear.

There was her father, broad-shouldered and handsome, his skin already gray. His golden-brown hair matted with blood, his eyes glassy, blood dribbling from his agape mouth.

His face . . . his face . . .

Slaughtered like animals. The wounds were so vulgar, so gaping and deep, and his parents looked so—so—

Michael whips the cloak off his face as he vomits. He falls to his knees, his bladder loosening just before he vomits a second time.

“This is not real, this is not real,” he gasps as a wet warmth soaked his pants. He can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t—

And then she was pushing to her feet, bolting away from that room, toward the wood-­paneled walls, through them like a wraith herself, until—

A study, and another body.

The king. Carved up, mutilated, gutted and broken.

By his hands.

The woman lurking behind him slides a hand over his chest, along his abdomen, pulling his back against its chest with a lover’s gentleness. Panic surges, so strong that he slams his elbow back and up — hitting what feels like flesh and bone. She hisses, releasing him. That is all he needs. He runs, treading through the illusion of his old enemy’s blood and organs, and then—

Watery sunlight and clean stone, and a stone bridge which he sprints towards, not caring about the vomit on his clothes, his soiled pants, the gasping, shrieking noise coming out of his throat.

He runs until he reaches the head of the bridge and falls to the cold stone, gripping it, breaking his nails, retching even though he has nothing left in him but a trickle of bile. He is screaming or sobbing or some sound in between.

The well beneath his stomach is filling with burning, relentless, golden fire. Surging to rise up and protect him. Shield him. Cast out whatever darkness is invading his thoughts, his blood . . .

No. _No_.

With each breath, the well deepens, that wildfire rising and falling and reaching up, up . . .

He really does scream then, because his throat burned, or maybe that was the magic coming out, at last unleashed.

He tries to clamp down on it, clenching his teeth so hard he thinks they might crack. He convulses, like there’s food stuck in his throat.

The wildfire mixes and churns with that golden healing light, his throat burning and cooling. The fire looking for a way out as the healing tries to quell it.

He convulses uncontrollably, a shell at the mercy of the magic as they fight for dominance. But that fire is now absorbing the golden light – taking it and molding it into something –

Michael suddenly coughs, feeling like he’s going to vomit again.

 _I will not let this happen again_.

Anger replaces fear, and Michael grips onto that golden fire with mental hands. He dares to open his eyes, a waft of salty air brushes his nose, the ends of his hair.

He looks to his left and finds the metal posts, the thin chain the only barrier between stone, and a deep, cold plunge into the water.

The fire rumbles, pressing against his blood, squeezing his bones. _Out_ , it howls. _Out_.

His hands tremble, curling, as if he can keep it in.

Not sparing a second thought, he turns and runs, aiming towards the ocean that stretches through Arendelle’s port and beyond.

He drops the spear and dagger onto the cobblestones and dives into the water.

Steam hisses, wafting around him in billowing clouds for a short second before water floods his ears. He embraces the water’s bite as he plunges, even if it fails to pierce the heat of him.

The water is clear, though the gloom veiled the bottom that slopes away as he pushes further into.

The water is silent. Cool, and welcome, and calm.

So Michael loosens the leash—only a fraction.

Flame leaps out, devoured by the frigid water. Consumed by it.

It pulls away that pressure, that endless fog of heat. Soothed and chilled until thoughts take form.

With each stroke beneath the surface, out into the darkness, he can feel it again. Himself.

More magic ripples out, and Michael lets the leash loosen inch by inch.

He lets himself sink and sink and sink, toes grasping only open, cool water, straining for a bottom that will not arrive.

Down into the dark, the cold.

The ancient, icy water pulls away the flame and heat and strain. Pulls and sucks and waves it off.

Cooling that burning core of his until he takes form, a blade red-hot from the fire plunged into water.

He swims deeper and deeper despite his racing heart at the sight of the darkness looming beyond. But this darkness was different, he told himself.

He felt his chest pulse with the need for air, or maybe it was his magic trying to choke him out. Either way, Michael only swims deeper until he feels his ears pop.

When he can’t tell which way is up or down, or left or right, he relaxes, letting the cold water cradle him in its muted hands.

The light burst from him, rippling across the ocean.

A silent eruption absorbed into a thick silence.


	25. Chapter 25

She felt the rumble of the explosion from the study on the third floor.

Before she knew what she is doing, she is sprinting down the hallways and stairs, the skirt of her tangerine dress fisted in her white-knuckled hands.

Michael and Kristoff were in town today.

Where is Anna? Did she feel the explosion too?

Elsa reaches the main floor, bursting through the doors into the courtyard. Only to be met with Kai and several other servants and guards ordering her back in. Elsa orders them to release her, pushing her way down the steps and into the throng of villagers crowded in the courtyard. The divide seems even between those who are injured and not.

Casting her glance around, her heart trembles at the sight: of the guards escorting dirtied and bloodied citizens, of medics running about with supplies – of which Kai gave them permission to use what was available in the castle – of the smears and puddles of blood spotting across the yard.

Above all that, Kristoff and Michael are nowhere to be found. But she does find her sister sobbing with Ida under one of the alcoves. Ida notices her first, then Elsa watches the servant woman direct Anna’s attention behind her.

The sight of her little sister crying hurts more than any dagger. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed. Elsa couldn’t stop her own eyes from stinging as she hurries her steps to embrace her sister.

“They’re not here, Elsa.” Anna’s voice trembles.

“I know. I know, Anna, but they will be.” Elsa tries to assure as she pets her sister’s head. She also didn’t add on that Kristoff is with Michael. A former rebel, a former soldier. He has to be used to situations like this.

Has to be . . .

Her own heartbeat is starting to sound like a distant war drum in her ears, but she doesn’t allow herself to sink into her own rising hysteria. If she does, if the citizens see their own queen unraveling at the chaos, then she’ll lose everyone.

She can’t afford to lose herself, not yet.

Elsa looks to Ida, the servant woman’s gaze hardened and focused. As Elsa continues to hold her sister, she asks. “How many do we have?”

“I counted over forty people being injured. And that’s just the ones here in the courtyard. There still could be people out in the city.”

“Have we already tapped into the castle supplies?”

“That, and some of the local doctors and physicians are bringing supplies from their homes, their offices.”

“Good.” She says, but her heartbeat is on a crescendo. Her eyes are constantly looking around the crowd, hoping and praying to see a pair of antlers, and two men next to him.

“Guys!” Olaf calls behind them. “What’s going on? It’s not raining, where’s the thunder coming from?”

Anna manages to gather herself for the snowman, wiping her eyes and cheeks. Elsa has no idea where the snowman came from, or how he managed to get to through the courtyard without managing to see all the bloodied and injured. Anna still isn’t able to talk much, so Elsa kneels down and takes the snowman’s hands.

“Olaf, listen to me. Something bad, and really dangerous just attacked us and our people. Right now, everyone is really scared, and we have to do whatever they can to help them.”

As Elsa is talking, her eyes flick down to the snowman’s little stubby feet. She swallows back the tightness in her throat as she finds his right foot stained with blood. He must’ve stepped into a puddle of it and not realize.

Elsa throat tightens, enough that she has to cough, pretending she has a tickle before waving her hand. The blood-stained snow gathered in Olaf’s foot slips from it like a drop of an icicle. Elsa flicks her hand to her right, the snow dropping into the stones of the courtyard. Another red-stained puddle.

“Where are Kristoff, Sven, and Michael?”

Behind her, Anna stiffs and chokes on a sob. Elsa takes a deep breath, clinging to that hope like a raft in a thunderous sea. “They were in town today, and we haven’t seen them come back yet.”

The snowman’s eyes widen, hid molded eyebrows furrowing. “Can’t we go and look for them?”

“No, Olaf.” Her voice hitches and takes another steadying breath. “We can’t. It’s too dangerous out there.” As she watches the snowman’s expression fall, she pinches the tip of his carrot nose. “Hey, but they will show up. They’re touch guys. They can make it.”

Olaf nods, but the smile he gives her doesn’t reach his eyes.

Elsa stands as Anna blows her nose in a handkerchief Ida offered her. She steps up to Elsa’s side and mumbles, near pleads, “We need to go find them.”

“We can’t just leave these people here, Anna. Besides, at this point even our own guards won’t let us go.”

“You’re the queen –!”

“And I made an oath to always do what’s best for Arendelle. And that right now, is helping take care of the wounded and help the people who are scared.”

Elsa turns to Ida, the woman’s eyes scanning the crowd; marking every bloodied face and stained clothes. The woman senses her gaze and looks to her, her chocolate brown eyes brightened with focus.

“Bring your supplies from your quarters, help the doctors make a list of who’s priority and who can be fixed with simpler procedures.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“We move all the uninjured into the ballroom, provide food and some blankets.”

Ida nods and gives a quick curtsey before she hurries to her rooms with swift feet. Elsa turns to Anna, still wiping her nose and her eyes, Olaf hugging her skirt like a child. Elsa embraces her sister again, starting a new wave of sobs as her sister buries into her shoulder.

“It’ll be okay, Anna. They’ll be okay.”

More sobs and sniffling.

“Anna –”

“Queen Elsa! Princess Anna!” a voice calls over the rippling voices in the courtyard.

All three of them look over to find Kai waving his gloved hand waving at them. His cheeks are flushed red, but there’s a smile on his lips, a twinkle of relief and jubilance flickers in his eyes.

Behind him, several citizens part to reveal two guards escorting

“ _Kristoff_!” Anna screams with a sob, as if her body will break apart.

Elsa looks, and sure enough, Kristoff and Sven are limping their way through the crowd, escorted by a couple of guards. Both are covered in black ash, but they don’t seem to be inured other than possibly being in shock from the explosion. Sven looks as though he might have a sprained ankle, Kristoff holding his side, but she doesn’t see any blood.

Her sister shoves past her and Olaf, people stepping out of her way as she rushes towards Kristoff. Elsa follows behind, her heart sinking as she continually looks for Michael.

She doesn’t see him.

Anna throws her arms around Kristoff’s neck, the Ice Master biting back a shout of pain as he embraces her. He removes the arm he’s kept around Sven’s shoulder and holds her tight, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

Her body shakes — shakes as she sobs and says over and over and over, “Thank the gods.”

Elsa approaches with Olaf, who immediately hobbles over to Sven’s side. Up this close, the reindeer’s fur is covered in ash and soot, and he wobbles a little on his feet. He might just be dizzy from the explosion, as Elsa can’t see any definitive signs of any of his ankles being broken or twisted.

Anna pulls back long enough to survey Kristoff’s clean face, his clear eyes. Apart from their dusting of smoke and pale dust, there’s no sign of any injuries. No blood, no broken bones.

Anna steps aside as Elsa embraces Kristoff, gentler than Anna, but still Kristoff stiffens. He smells of smoke and sweat, hopefully the worst he has is some bruising.

“Thank goodness you’re okay!” Anna says, as she motions the guards to escort them all inside. “What happened?”

“I – I don’t know.” Kristoff stumbles. “We – we were just walking down the sidewalk, talking, and getting along. One minute we were talking and laughing, and then the next there was this big crash of sound, and this push of air. A-and I remember Michael turning – he was ahead of me – and he just jumped on me, pinning me down.”

The sisters share a nervous expression as they follow Kristoff and the two guards into the castle. They come in through the side door, entering the ballroom. Both sisters silently agree to let Kristoff rest on the steps. There’s no way they’re getting him up the stairs.

“The sound was, so loud. And it felt like the whole world was shaking. My ears were ringing, and I remember Michael telling me to get up. He helped me to my feet, a-a-and then he was talking to the guards. I tried to tell him no, but, he just shook his head and turned and headed deeper into town.”

“He protected you?” Anna asks with delicate quiet.

Kristoff only nods. Elsa looks to her sister, who doesn’t take her eyes off of Kristoff. But Elsa can see the understanding, the guilt flickering within them.

“And he’s still out there?” Elsa asks, though the question has more bite than she intended.

Another nod, and Kristoff says, “I – I don’t know how long he’s been gone, but when Sven and I got to the bridge, there was this, loud wailing. It didn’t sound human.”

That is enough for Elsa to start stomping her way through the crowd, Anna calling behind her. She bursts through the doors and picks up the skirt of her dress as she starts to run towards the gates. People make a path for her, some still having some sense to bow, but she doesn’t care. They don’t owe her anything right now. She’s just at the gates, the guards’ expression torn between denying her, and letting her through on her order.

They don’t have to. Because a slender hand grabs her by the elbow and Elsa turns to find Anna with wide, fretted eyes. But her eyebrows show annoyance. “Please tell me you are not about to go find him!”

Elsa looks to the gates, to the guards still ushering people in; the amount of people coming in bloodstained is slowly staring to lessen. “I can find him. I can help him.”

“Or you could get killed before you even get the chance!”

“I have my magic to protect me –”

“So does Michael!”

Elsa wrenches her arm from her sister’s grip. “You’d really just leave him out there alone, after everything he did to save Kristoff?!”

Anna steps back, baffled and hurt. Elsa regrets her words, but not as much as they both expected.

Elsa takes a couple steadying breaths, closing her eyes for a few seconds before regaining her composure. “I’m going to find him. And I’m going to do whatever I can.”

“Wait, Elsa –!”

“Your Majesty –” one of the guards starts.

But she’s already shoving her way through the first set of gates, then the next. She can see the smoke coming from the clock tower. She’d start there. Maybe she can just follow a path of destruction to fid Michael. Knowing him, he might’ve gone further out of town, towards the mountainous countryside where there are less people, and places to destroy.

Frantically, Anna calls behind her. “Elsa, wait! Please –!”

Elsa crosses the bridge, her steps heavy and her hands growing cold with her power. She’s about to head towards the clock tower when a hideous cry catches her attention.

Her heart nearly stops at the sight of a black misty cloud churns and undulates a few yards ahead of her. Streaks of light flash within it, like lightning behind a cloud, wisps of smoke floating off it like embers of a campfire.

Then there he is, sprinting as if the denizens of hell are on his heels.

Michael breaks past the shadowy barrier, eyes frantic like a deer being hunted, all the color leeched from his skin. She lets out a sob at the sight of him, at the wounds across his neck and shoulders, at the blood permeating his clothes. She would’ve approached, were it not for an oppressive force pushing down on her chest.

Michael falls to his knees just a few feet before the bridge, and he starts screaming.

Screaming, and pleading, the two sounds indistinguishable as he fights whatever horror the darkness has brought upon him. Elsa has never heard that sound. She’s never heard him scream with . . . with fear. And pain.

His clothes are stained with vomit and piss, his cheeks tearstained. He claws at the cobblestone before him, as if he would drag himself across the bridge. His body arcs as he retches, but only a thick dribble of saliva falls from his lips.

Sparks of amber flicker around him, though the stones, the wood, do not burn. Doesn’t so much as steam. Whatever that blackness is doing, she can see Michael’s magic jolt in response. His body shudders and he chokes on a breath, trying to clamp it down with all his mental strength.

Michael’s eyes open.

They are empty. Wholly drained.

He stares right at him, but Elsa knew he couldn’t see her. He looks to his left, towards the dock. The fjord.

And the endless glittering ocean beyond it.

Looking past him, towards that blanket of darkness, Elsa gasps when she sees a woman step forth from the shadows.

Her hair flowed like liquid obsidian, floating about her head on a phantom wind. Her skin is as white as alabaster, her amethyst eyes burning with a cold flame within. A dress of deep purple hugs her lush body, fading into the black smoke that whispers at her feet.

She is the most beautiful woman Elsa has ever seen.

And the most horrifying.

The woman’s eyes are set on Michael, still hunched over puking his guts up. but she doesn’t come any closer.

Elsa takes five steps towards him, his name a plea on her lips. But he is already sprinting towards the docks, dropping a sword and what looked like a lance from one of the guards.

She didn’t realize that he was burning so hotly until he’d dove into the frigid ocean and steam had risen.

In a blink, the woman and that sphere of impenetrable darkness just vanish. Elsa wastes no time getting down to the docks to find Michael.

Silently, he swims beneath the surface, the water so clear she can see every stroke of his faintly glowing body. As if the water had peeled away the skin of the man and revealed the blazing soul beneath.

But that glow fades with each passing stroke he takes deeper into the water, dimming further each time he swims deeper beneath the surface.

Elsa skids to a stop at the end of the dock. The water is warm at its surface, but the deeper you dive, the quicker the ice hand reaches up and seizes you. Yet there is Michael swimming deeper and deeper and deeper. Each stroke of his muscled body has her stomach churning as his form becomes more and more rippled.

He has to come up for air. He _has_ to.

Suppressing her urge to jump in after him, she folds her arms and watches, trying her best to keep an eye on him.

A light illuminates beneath the surface. Though dulled by the ocean veil it ripples across the surface, as beautiful and as hypnotizing as the northern lights.

He’s still apparently close enough to the surface that a huge mass of bubbles and sea foam belch from beneath.

He’s releasing his power. Whatever that woman was doing, it did rile his magic enough that he almost had another outburst. Only this time, he might’ve destroyed the kingdom.

Elsa still remembers the radius of which his magic erupted at the temple.

To have such control . . . to have such strength to hold that leash . . .

Once the glow fades, Elsa expects Michael to come back to the surface for air.

But instead, she watches as his rippling form plunges deeper into the water. So deep that when the flare happens, it was little more than a flutter.

He’s already too far out for her own level of comfort, but she forces herself to hold back. To wait, and to see.

The light burst from him, rippling across the fjord, illumining the walls that border the fjord, the wood of the docks and nearby houses, and slick rock of the mountainside. She can hear the muffled beat, like hearing a drum off in the distance.

A silent eruption.

The light slowly starts to dim, like a long exhale of tension until only the rippling reflections remain. She can see no sign of him.

She hears footsteps behind her, the gait informing her it’s Anna, but Elsa doesn’t look to her.

Her breathing turns ragged. But Michael swims towards the surface, light streaming off his body like tendrils of clouds. It has nearly vanished when he emerges.

He treads water, dipping his head back every now and then to scrub at his hair.

Though the movements seem casual, she can see the distant look in his eyes. Though clearer than before, she can tell these simple movements, these orders to do _something_ , it the only thing keeping him from completely shattering. The glow still barely clinging to his body.

His face is pale—so pale, all traces of the sun-kissed coloring gone.

And empty. Aware, and yet not.

Wary.

Ripples shudder around him, his back to her as he dips his head back, smoothing his hair once more.

Finally, Elsa lets herself break the silence. “Michael.” She calls.

He turns to her, but he doesn’t answer.

“You should come out.” She continues. But he does no such thing, his arms continuing their sweeping circles in the water. Michael only stares at him in a grave, cautious way.

Gods, what did she do to him? What did she make him see?

Very well. If her own voice can’t speak to him, can’t reach him in ways that convince him this is real, that he is here, they maybe her magic can.

Elsa keeps her gaze upon him as she folds her hands together, ribbons of flurries and snowflakes floating around them. A pale blue light shines through her fingers before she opens her palms to reveal snowball the size of a marble. 

She spreads her hands out, as if setting a bird into flight, and the little snowball drifts towards him. His dulled sapphire eyes still stare at her with cautious intent.

Elsa watches, folding her hands to her chest as she watches the little snowball make a direct path towards him.

His gaze follows it, like a cat ready to pounce on a canary. When the little snowball reaches him, it floats upward for a second before bursting into a little firework of snowflakes.

Michael watches the little flakes, even reaching up and attempting to catch one of them. Elsa feels the thread of her magic down to the snowflakes, catching one that was still floating down towards him.

She follows his gaze and wills the snowflake to pause its descent. Michael stares at it, lifting his hand up to balance it on the tip of his finger.

She could’ve sworn she felt a delicate touch of heat grasp that turquoise tether, a gentle stroke of a candle flame.

 _I am here_ , she whispers through her magic. _And so are you_.

Michael looks to her, and she suppresses a shiver as his sapphire eyes lay upon her once more.

 _Come back to shore_ , she pleads, seeing the remaining snowflakes loop around him towards his back, a small little push.

Michael doesn’t hesitate, yet his strokes remain steady as he swims for her. She doesn’t offer him a hand, not as he swims to the side of the dock and hoists himself up using the support planks like a makeshift ladder.

Elsa has been so concentrated on keeping him focused, keeping him calm that it took Anna’s outburst, “Oh my goodness!” for her to see what startled her.

Color flushes her face when she sees Michael is standing naked before her.

He burned through all his clothes. Burned them to ash in his eruption. Guess the water couldn’t save everything.

She had looked away entirely when she stumbled upon him in the solarium, but with his eyes still hollowed, his gaze still wary, Elsa did her best to keep her eyes up as she takes a step towards him.

The water drips from the tips of his hair, gathering at the hollow point underneath his jaw before streaming down his strong column of a neck. It pools at his collarbone, flowing down his hardened chest –

Michael’s eyes look to her.

They are empty. Wholly drained. Exhaustion weighing down on him like a weighted blanket.

Elsa blurts, scrambling for anything to banish that emptiness, “Kristoff is safe. He and Sven made it back to the castle.”

Two blinks. As if that struck a chord in his mind.

Behind her, Elsa can hear Anna say, “Bring me a towel, please.”

Elsa takes another step forward, her hands reaching up and tracing her fingers down his cheeks. Her eyes look to the wounds on his neck and shoulders – or lack there of. The wounds she knew she saw before he jumped have now been reduced to a mostly healed scab. The healing magic in him must’ve released a little along with that fire.

He does not balk at her touch. She gasps when his own hands, cover her own, pressing them harder into his cheek, the side of his neck.

His nose grazes the heel of her palm and she loosens a thin thread of her power. Michael almost seems to hum with pleasure at her cool touch. She doesn’t blame him, after another near outburst like that, it would only make sense that he’d crave something that opposes it.

As well as solidify that what he is seeing is not some kind of illusion.

Another blink, his face still so hollow and cold. Tired.

“Michael.” Elsa whispers. It takes the entirety of her courtly training and etiquette practice to keep the devastation, the agony for him, from her face. “You’re going to be okay.”

Michael’s throat bobs as he whispers, “I’m tired, Elsa.”

Her heart strains. “I know, Michael. Let’s get you inside, and you can sleep as long as you want.”

Footsteps approach from behind and Anna averts her eyes as she hands Elsa the towels. She takes one and wraps it around his shoulders, unhindered as she presses it against the sides of his neck, catching the dripping water at the ends of his hair. Without a word, she holds out the second towel, asking the question with a lift of her brows. He seems to understand, as he takes the second towel from her and wraps it around his waist.

The movements were so wooden, like a puppet on strings. He doesn’t utter a single word.

It unnerves her more than the explosion, than that devastatingly beautiful woman.

“Come on,” she whispers, as gentle and as soft as her mother’s voice had once been. “Let’s get you back to the castle.”

She presses her hand in the middle of his muscled back, giving the slightest push to get him to move. It works; but barely.

He moves so stiffly, and she knew it wasn’t just from the release of his magic.

Kai and a couple other servants are waiting for them at the gates. Their eyes widen, their mouth falling agape, though they’re quick to cover it. Michael doesn’t seem to care.

The path through the throng of citizens seems like a mile. Elsa mentally curses herself for not thinking of it, but it’s the only entrance they have into the courtyard, into the castle.

Michael begins shaking again.

Her only hope is that all those years of military training, and his mental strength will continue to hold until they get inside.

The only thin, silver lining she has is that no one will give a damn about the mysterious man the queen is leading into the castle. He’ll just look like another civilian. 

Still, she finds herself looping her arm around his and whispering into his ear, “Just a little further. Keep looking ahead.”

Anna follows her on the right. And Elsa nearly slaps her sister as she asks, “Do we know what it was?”

“ _Anna_ –”

But Michael’s features don’t shift from that graveness, that unruffled calm. “It was another demon. I killed it, and . . .” His eyes seem to clear for a moment, a soldier relaying information, “and I think those runes we see are for summoning.”

“We can talk about it later, Michael.” Elsa soothes, rubbing her thumb along the back of his bloodied knuckles. Let’s just get you to bed.”

They lead him into the castle, through the ballroom and up the stairs to his rooms. Kristoff and Sven were nowhere to be found, and Elsa did her best to conceal her heavying heart. She had hoped that seeing them would help break the hardened silence that glosses over Michael’s eyes. Kai and a few other servants took it upon themselves to draw the attention of some of the people inside, despite the settling chaos having wrapped itself around their minds.

Elsa leads him to his rooms, opening the doors and leading him inside. She finally releases her holds on him, half expecting him to topple over, relieved when he stays standing.

“Are you going to be okay?” she manages to get out. Any relief that had surged through her now transforms into something sharper.

He heads for the bathroom and doesn’t stop. She doesn’t dare move.

He is a wraith, a hollow husk.

“Michael.”

He reaches the bathroom, never turning back as he shuts the door behind him.


	26. Chapter 26

He can’t get the screaming out of his head.

Even if his release in the fjord had quelled his riled magic, he still couldn’t escape the image he’d seen in that darkness.

He can’t stop seeing his father’s head roll to his feet, or the king disemboweled and broken by his hands.

It cracked open the old repertoire of his mind, bringing forth the memories of feeling each push of the dagger into the king’s skin, hearing the king scream as he broke each finger, the blood permeating his armor, splattering across his face as he stared the man straight in the eye before –

Michael shakes his head, willing the images to cast out; just drop from his mind like a pebble.

He had to give himself simple orders just to keep his body moving, fearing that if he were to stay still for too long, the images would flood towards the front of his mind, then he would lose himself entirely.

If it weren’t for her magic, for her voice . . . for _her_ , he would still think he was trapped in that darkness.

But the caress of her ice . . .

The silkiness of her voice . . .

When he ran out of things to do, when his mind was clear enough but he couldn’t draw a single thought, she carefully held him aloft through that raging sea of memory.

Seeing the damage that had been done, what summoning that demon created, Michael couldn’t stop the shaking as Elsa guided him through the courtyard. It took all of his military training and insistent comparison to keep him steady, to keep his feet moving.

 _It’s just like the wounded section of the infirmary,_ he told himself.

And though he could tell Elsa was ready to slap the freckles off her sister, Anna’s question provided enough of a purpose that he was able part through his tangled thoughts to relay the information. Elsa telling him that Kristoff and Sven had made it helped calm him a little too. Even if he didn’t see no sign of the man and reindeer, the sister’s – especially Anna’s – relief and calm helped assure Elsa’s words.

As she guided him up the stairs and through the castle to his rooms, he was reduced to counting his steps to keep himself together. All while Elsa’s cold hand kept him tethered to this reality; the feeling of her thumb stroking his knuckles, the coldness of her skin against his, pressing against the heat that still lurked beneath his skin . . .

It wasn’t until they reached his rooms that everything started to settle, but not contently. The roaring silence that had been cresting him since he pulled himself up on the dock was slowly creeping towards him like a leopard.

Then she released him, and it took all of his remaining strength to keep him steady, to keep his steps focused on getting to the bathroom. Getting out of her sight before he completely collapses into a million, jagged pieces.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked.

He couldn’t answer her. Even if he wanted to.

He didn’t dare break his focus. Not yet.

His chest nearly caved when he reached the bathroom, closing the door without a second glance at her.

He doesn’t think he could stand the horror and pain on her face.

Now, standing naked in the bathroom, Michael quickly realizes he is standing alone, in the dark.

With jagged breaths, he scrambles through the cabinets, setting candles all around the bathroom’s perimeter, placing trios of them on the sink, around the tub and wherever he wanted the light. Half a thought from him and he probably could’ve lit them all, but instead he wastes the matches lighting them all, the golden flame settling his jackrabbit heartbeat.

He turns the gold knob of the tub and lets the water run freezing, the cool air a welcome in his nose, his throat even as it pebbles his nipples and sends his skin crawling.

He doesn’t care. He would force Elsa to freeze him in a block of ice at this point.

He peels off the towel, his bruised skin already healing thanks to that half of his magic. he was so focused on releasing the wild flame, he didn’t even give the golden glow a second thought; he couldn’t tell them apart at the time. He assumed that part remained untouched, too . . . contaminated by the flame to know the difference.

Naked and already shivering, he steps into the tub, its edges already clouded with condensation.

The icy water seizes his skin like venom.

He swallows his scream, his sob, his whimper, and doesn’t balk from the glacial torrent.

Doesn’t do anything as he lets it burn everything away.

* * *

She didn’t want to leave him alone.

Even with her civilians crowding her courtyard, even if she should be there for support and ease of mind, she can’t bring herself to leave his living room. They left Anna when they started up the stairs to his rooms, and her sister hasn’t since come for her. Elsa lets herself assume it’s a good thing; thinking they don’t need her. She wouldn’t be surprised if Anna went to go see Kristoff after leaving Elsa with Michael.

She doesn’t know what to think: if he assumed she left, or if he was aware that she still lingered in the living room. Now she’s finding herself looking for something to do, something to occupy her mind as he baths himself. She wraps her arms around herself as she takes careless steps around his rooms.

Gods, it already smells of him, of rain-kissed pines and sun-warmed leather. She could never really place his scent – likely because since his retirement from the rebels he hadn’t deigned to wear any cologne – but now that she’s here, now that she can let it envelope her senses, it makes sense.

His scent whispers tales of outside; working and playing in the summer sun, baking in the fall, warm fires in the winter. He hums with the aroma of the countryside, with a drop of urban cologne.

The silence wraps around her as he rounds to the front of the couch. Everything is quiet; even the fireplace has dulled, and frankly is the only sign of life and light in this room. The curtains are still open, the evening light casting divided golden squares along the wooden floors. It’s near blinding at this angle, though Elsa doesn’t want to pull the drapes in fear of startling Michael. So she settles herself onto the couch, as much out of the light’s angle as she can, waiting for him to finish bathing.

There’s little to no movement, no sound.

Twenty minutes.

Thirty.

Forty.

When the clock creeps up on an hour, she finds herself knocking on the door. “Michael?”

No answer. Not even a shift of water. As she goes to open the door, her heart sinks when she finds it locked.

“Michael.” She repeats, knocking a couple of times.

Nothing.

“Michael. Michael, open up.”

The delicate sound of water breaches her ears.

She moves, not thinking. Not caring.

In a heartbeat, her magic has the lock frozen in seconds, weakening the metal and wood enough that she has the door open with one hard shove of her shoulder, the lock shattering.

She braces herself for the worst, his name on her lips, cursing herself for even thinking that letting bathe alone was a good idea –

But there he is. Sitting naked in the tub with his knees curled into his chest, his head bowed down. His hair drapes over his scarred forearms; larger, thicker scars are stark against the golden light.

She blinks past her fear, her relief, realizing now how dark the bathroom is. Only lit by a gathering of candles. There are clusters of three on the sink against the left wall, and on the towel stand and in the corners of the tub pushed against the back wall. Single ones dotting around the perimeter.

Curled against himself, she can see the whole expanse of the ruined flesh of his back, each scar from training, from battles, and probably so much worse. She swallows past her fear of how some of them look like he’d been whipped.

The skirt of her tangerine dress whispers against the wood floor. If the chilled air wasn’t enough, when she places her hands on the rim of the tub, it only confirms her suspicions. Ice cold.

“Michael.” She says. He doesn’t so much as move. She can see cuts and scratches on his shoulder and neck, now scarring too, and figures that’s where the demon managed to strike him. Her stomach sinks at the thought of how deep they must reach.

She extends a hand and touches his shoulder. His skin is cold to the touch. She glances between him and the water.

He’s trying to suffocate the heat, that fire, at any cost.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look at her.

He’s scared, she realizes. Scared of the uncharted territory of magic, scared of what’ll happen if that fire seizes him again. Scared of that woman and her rippling darkness. What did she do to him?

Michael makes no indication that he knew she stood there.

But his breathing deepens. Becomes easier.

And she can’t explain why she does it, but she grabs a bottle of shampoo and a block of freesia-smelling soap from the cabinet next to the sink. Then steps around the tub until she’s facing his scarred back.

“I’m going to clean you off.” She says quietly. “If that’s all right.”

A deep and terribly clear nod is his only response. Like words are still too hard. But he lifts his head slightly, revealing his eyes, his nose now atop his forearm. But he also curls into himself tighter.

So Elsa pours the shampoo into her hands, and then laces hers fingers into his hair. The thick strands are heavy, and she gently scrubs, reaching over to the small cabinet holding a bowl and pitcher. She dips the pitcher into the water and carefully pours it over his head to rinse. After the third pour, she combs his hair back with her fingers.

“That was her,” he finally whispers, his throat tight. “The woman who was at the temple, when my magic –”

His voice hitches at the end, as if his throat had closed. Elsa removes her hands from his hair and quietly soothes him, gently shushing as she sets the pitcher down. Not to quiet him, but to tell him there’s no rush. He can tell her when he’s good and ready.

She picks up the bar of soap, dipping it, and lathering her hands, uncaring about the long sleeves of her dress. He is naked, she realizes, having somehow forgotten. Utterly naked. She doesn’t let herself contemplate it as she begins lathering his neck, his powerful back, his broad shoulders. She scrubs down his upper body as best she can.

She thoroughly rinses each before coming to the side of the tub and pulling up a stool to wash his muscled arms.

“I’ll . . . do what I can.” She says, her face heating. He finally turns his head to her; the lovely panes of his face seem velvet-smooth and inviting.

Michael levels unfazed upon her. He blinks, his only sign that he heard.

As she works her way down his right arm, she pauses as she holds his hand, her fingertips bumping over the scar of when he shattered it with a blacksmith’s hammer. She can’t resist the urge to run her fingers over it, as gentle as the strum of a harp string.

“She dragged me through my memories.” He says, his voice low and raw. “And not the good ones.”

Elsa freezes at the wave of numbness that spreads across her body. He looks to her, his eyes seemingly drained of their color. She makes himself look to him, even as his features became haunted. Michael’s eyes drift away from her as he takes a rattling breath, and another, but it does nothing to lessen his shaking. His face tightens, his lips folding in before releasing a strained sigh. A single tear streams down his cheek. The water shifts as he sighs into his fingers, his lower lip quivering as he runs them down his chin.

Not knowing what else to say, she merely reaches out and runs her fingers down the scars on his neck, as if she can somehow erase the wound. “I’m sorry.” she says. And he knew she meant it.

She doesn’t dare give him false hope that it’ll be okay. That he’ll be okay. Those memories – whatever they were – had cut deep; so much so that he is near unraveling. He’d confided to her that he lost his parents, and judging from his reaction . . .

Broken. That’s what he is. Broken anew.

Whatever time he’d spent piecing himself back together after the death of his parents, that woman just completely shattered with one cast of her blanketing darkness.

Elsa blinks past the sting in her eyes, and she laces her fingers with Michael’s. Her own breath trembles as she brings the back of his hand to her lips, brushing them against the surprisingly soft skin.

“I’m here for you, should you ever need it, Michael.” She mumbles against it.

Her words steady him enough that he stops trembling. She releases his hand and stands up to walk around to the other side of the tub to wash his left arm. In the silence, she washes his left arm, even getting as far as underneath and along his ribs.

He needs rest, and the comfort of oblivion. So Elsa rinses off the soap, making sure that not one bubbles it left on him. Without a word of warning, Michael rises to his feet in one, graceful push. Elsa keeps her eyes averted from what, exactly, this brought to her direct line of vision. She stands, dipping the pitcher in to pour down the sides of his hips; as far as she dares to go, then reaches in and pulls the drain plug.

Only the dribbling of water eddying into the drain fills the lukewarm bathroom.

Elsa grabs a towel, keeping her eyes up as Michael steps out of the tub. She slings it around his hips, yanks a second towel from the cabinet and runs it over his skin, some of the color having returned. Then rubs his hair. He towers over her, enough that she has to rise to her toes to reach the crown of his head.

“Come on,” she murmurs. “Time for bed.”

He looks around at all of the candles, but doesn’t object when she tugs him forward and out of the bathroom. With a wave of her fingers, a thin stream of snowflakes dances over the candles, extinguishing them all. She leads him into the bedroom, to the chest of drawers where he put his things. The clock on the fireplace mantle reads five in the evening. A little early for bed, but she knew he could sleep for three days.

She pulls out a pair of black undershorts and as she turns around, his warm hand grasps her wrist. He takes the shorts without a word, walking over to the bed and tossing the first towel from his shoulders.

Elsa looks away as he undoes the second. Despite having seen him utterly nude mere moments ago, he spared her the need to dress him, so she’ll spare whatever embarrassment he has left.

Once she hears the soft snap of the waistband, she turns around and finds him hanging the towels on the divan at the end of the bed. She doesn’t even bother with the thought of trying to get him into some shirt and pants, not with that exhaustion threatening to pull him down at any second.

Elsa walks around him and pulls back the blanket on the bed. She pats the mattress. “Come on. Get some sleep, Michael.”

He obeys, sliding between the sheets with a soft groan.

She pulls the curtains closed, darkening the bedroom, and returns to where he now lies. He stares at her with raw openness. More intimate than any touch of his skin to hers. Like he can see everything she was and had been and might yet become.

Daring to stroke his damp hair away from his brow, Elsa’s fingers graze the outer shell of his ear as she sets the hair. His eyes close.

“I was so worried about you.” She whispers, stroking his hair again. “I . . .” She can’t finish the sentence. The silence is too charged, his face too beautiful in the light. The muscles and perfection of him.

She makes to step back, to head to her own room and change into clothes despite the water only reaching to the middle of her forearm, like wet shackles.

But a warm, strong hand grips her wrist. Halts her.

She looks back and finds Michael staring at her again. “What?”

A gentle squeeze, and a slight tug on her wrist tells her everything.

 _Stay. Please_.

Her chest squeezes to the point of pain. “Yeah. Um . . . okay.”

At that moment, the thought of going all the way to her rooms, of leaving him for even a moment felt abhorrent. Like he might vanish if she leaves him for too long. And her rooms were a floor below him, the trek feeling like miles now.

Now she is beginning to quake, like a leaf on a windy day. She does her best to breathe, to hide her shaking hands as she digs through his wardrobe and finds a tunic. It’ll have to do. She takes the two steps down from the bed’s dais and twists away, unzipping her dress and letting it pool to her feet. She still has the decency of her undergarments, her only saving grace as she slides the royal blue tunic over herself. It hangs down to her knees, providing enough coverage to keep her thoughts straight enough as she drapes her dress over the back of the chair set by the fireplace, dwindling with life every second.

Taking the two steps back up the to the bed, Michael has moved over, giving her ample room. “Okay.” She mumbles, more to herself. Promising she’ll leave once he’s sound asleep.

The sheets are warm, and smell of him – rain-kissed pine. She tries not to breath it in too obviously as she wriggles down and lays facing him. And she tries not to look too shocked when his arm comes across her middle, pulling her close to him.

Cold. He wants to feel her cold. And if she had to admit it to herself, she wanted to feel his warmth. She has been so cold, so lonely, for so long, and her body cries out at the contact, at the joy of being touched and held and alive.

The hand that had been on her waist slides across and hooks behind her back, the warmth of his hand seeping into her body as he presses it between her shoulderblades. Elsa rests her head between his shoulder and neck.

She tentatively brushes the hair from his brow again.

Michael’s eyes close, but he leans slightly into the touch. A silent request.

Elsa continues stroking his hair, over and over, until his breathing deepens and steadies, his powerful body growing limp beside her.

And for the long hour afterward, her focus half remains on the rebel whose hands and mouth and body had suddenly made her feel awake — burning. It doesn’t make her forget, doesn’t make her obliterate hurts or grievances, it just makes her . . . alive.

Makes her feel as if she’s been asleep for years, slumbering inside a glass coffin, and he has just shattered through it and shaken her to consciousness.

Even if he’ll never voice it, she knew he was grateful for her company. As she was for his.

Sleep claims her faster than she anticipated.


	27. Chapter 27

Michael’s stirs against the early morning light braking through the crevice of his curtains. He knew he is in his bed, the feeling of the mattress beneath him unmistakable. His smell is the second sense to awaken, it smells like his bed but . . . different.

It smells like home. Like paradise and like he knew he was exactly where he wants to be.

Michael’s eyes flutter open to feminine softness and gentle breathing.

He had to stop himself from jolting out of the bed at the risk of waking her. But the shock still travels its way through him like lightning.

In the dim light, he finds his arm sprawled across Elsa’s side, the queen curled like a cat at his chest. Her back is facing him, the low dip of her nightgown – his tunic, actually – revealing the porcelain smoothness beneath. With her braid tucked beneath, he couldn’t help but follow the curve of her neck to her shoulder, then down her side to her hip –

She has her arm laying on top of his, securing herself to him as if was a safety belt, as if he would somehow slip away during sleep.

The clock on the mantle says it’s six in the morning. It’s not the time that surprises him, but the fact his mind is clear enough to think.

He carefully peels himself away from her, his muscles protesting only slightly. Thankfully, she doesn’t stir. Michael quickly realizes her legs are bare. A wink of light has Michael jerking his head towards the fireplace, to the chair that has a tangerine dress draped over its back.

With quiet feet, he walks over to the chair and picks up the tangerine dress by the waist. Looking it over, he allows a second to be impressed by the intricate sequin designs along the waist, sleeves, and down the back of the skirt. Most of the dress feels dry, perfectly clean until he reaches the forearms. Soaked reaching just beneath the elbow.

She took care of him. Washed and soaped and soothed him. He can’t remember the last time anyone had done that.

He’s surprised no one – especially Anna – had come to check on where she might’ve gone. Then again, Anna probably won’t leave Kristoff’s side for a while.

Looking back at the Snow Queen snuggled down in the sheets, Michael folds his lips in, his cheeks warming. He doubts this kingdom isn’t one to believe, let alone spread any rumors; but still he doesn’t want to do anything that would hurt Elsa’s reputation or image with her subjects.

However, the thought of having to carry her all the way to her rooms only makes his muscles heavier. The fatigue already has it feeling like there’s liquid lead in his veins, and he understands his limits enough to know he won’t make it twenty feet.

Draping the dress onto the chair once more, Michael pads over to Elsa’s side of the mattress. She stirs only slightly as he scoops her into his arms and carries her over to the couch. He lays her onto the cushions, and she grumbles, protesting at the cool fabric. He goes and digs through his armoire and finds a spare blanket in the bottom drawer. He gently drapes it over her, careful not to tuck her in too much at the risk of waking her.

Still, he spares a heartbeat to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, pulling the blanket over her shoulder.

He’s halfway across the expanse when there’s a gentle knock on his door. Michael prepares an explanation while swallowing a groan. He opens it to find his usual servant, already starting her morning routines.

He must’ve looked as bad as he feels because he sees her eyes widen slightly, her brows lifting before she catches herself. She bows her head and whispers, “Good morning, Sir Tuller.”

Michael clears his throat. “Morning.”

“Have I come at a bad time?”

“A bit.” He looks back to the still-sleeping queen. He braces one arm on the threshold, crossing his ankles. “Look. I’m going to be bedridden for a while. If she’s not out of here by this afternoon . . . just, send someone to come and get her.”

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder to Elsa and the servant woman balances on her toes to see. She doesn’t show any signs of surprise of judgement, even when he sees her eyeing the tangerine dress the queen was wearing yesterday.

Seems like he moved her just in time.

“Yes sir.” She says with another bow of her head.

“Thank you. And also, please send Kristoff my regards.”

“Yes sir.” She then turns and heads down the hall without any questions.

Michael trudges back to his bed, rubbing at his chest. As he slips back into bed, he sighs at the cool touch of the sheets.

He falls back asleep where the scent of her still lingers, like a phantom, cooling touch.

But it does so little to quell the growing silence, to suppress the bleakness of his heart.

He truly hadn’t realized what a despicable human being he is; how other people might see him. That no matter how many times he can save a citizen, or beat a gang in an alley, there will always be fear.

No welcome. No praise. No smiles.

Just fear.

Fear of The Reaper.

Michael fists the sheet in his hands. After he lost his parents, he pieced himself back together in the chaos of the rebellion. And when they were disbanded, he was so accustomed to the constant movement that he couldn’t bear to sit still.

So focused, yet so lost. Always needing something to do.

He thought it was because he was trained so efficiently; because his life was always on the line and he had to be prepared for anything to try and take it.

Lies. All of it was lies to himself.

He was running.

Running from the silence that sometimes became so suffocating that he couldn’t bring himself to even get out of bed some days.

Running from the memories of that cabin in the woods burning to ground, the smoke choking the air out of his lungs.

Running from the screams of his parents, the smell of their blood in the grass.

Running from the grief-stricken little boy; whose screams he can’t quiet no matter how many times he tries to smother it in booze or drugs or fights.

His temple throbs at the sudden crash of the memory, and he nearly gags when he thinks he smells the smoke of opium.

That afternoon with Kristoff yesterday . . . it had been nice. Great even.

Because he forgot all about the demons and the assassins. Had forgotten he was a rebel soldier who slaughtered his own king. Had forgotten just how broken he really is, and just enjoying life as a normal citizen would.

He is such a fool. He’d been foolish enough to think, just for a moment, that he can get away with being happy.

Michael listens to his own breathing, rubbing his fingers together as if he can still feel the blood underneath his fingernails. The blood of all those men and women he’d hacked down, the blood of the king he carved into pieces, and the coldness of his own heart, where all those painful memories gather to further entomb it in a core of icy silence.

Death is his curse and his gift, and death has been his good friend these long, long years.

He has nothing to give, except that.

* * *

The white light of the afternoon sun coaxes Elsa awake. The blankets are warm, but the mattress feels harder than she remembered, and the texture of the pillow –

Elsa sits up, jostling the blanket that has been draped over her. The couch. She’s sleeping on the couch, but she remembers falling asleep with Michael . . .

Had she not seen her tangerine dress draped over the back of the chair, she would’ve thought it was all a dream.

She tosses the blanket off and pads across the room to his bed in seconds. Michael must’ve moved her at some point. He’d been in no shape to do anything like that, and if he forced himself to train this morning –

She sighs as she glimpses at the golden skin of his muscled back, rising and falling with even breaths. Still sleeping.

Thank the gods.

The clock on the mantle reads eleven-thirty in the morning. Rubbing her hands over her face and through her bangs, Elsa grabs her dress and heads for the bathroom. She’s surprised no one has some to fetch her, not that she’s complaining. This is the most she’s slept in since her coronation.

She slips the tunic up over her head, inhaling his smell of rain-kissed pine. She leaves it on the towel hook until she changes back into her gown, the cold fabric pebbling her nipples and sending goose bumps across her skin. She doesn’t bother with her shoes, not even remembering where she kicked them to. Looking around the bathroom, they aren’t there.

Stepping back into the living room, Michael still heavily asleep, Elsa leaves the tunic draped over the back of the couch, unsure of what to do with it. She quietly looks around the room for her missing shoes, her mind reeling for an explanation should the questions arise.

Kneeling down to peek under the couch, they’re not there. She hopes they’re not by the bed. She quietly pads over to the solarium: nothing.

She’s about to give up as she wanders over to the front door, until she has to bite back a yelp as she nearly trips over her confounded heel. She catches herself on the console table by the door, her other hand covering her mouth. She whirls around to face the bed.

Michael barely moves an inch.

Heaving a quiet sigh of relief, Elsa glares at her little kitten heels as she picks them up by the straps. She places her hand on the silver handle when she pauses.

Looking back around at the room, at the rouge warrior asleep in the bed, she can’t help but wonder why he moved her.

Why, after everything that had happened, would he want to be alone?

Why would he move her, not want her company?

Then again, what else can she do? If he doesn’t want to talk about it, she certainly isn’t going to make him pry, make him talk. Not after how haunted the encounter had left him.

Despite her better judgement, despite what he revealed to her last night, maybe leaving him alone was best. Maybe she can come and check on him during a break in her schedule. She’ll offer her company then and see what he does.

Her eyes fall upon the tunic draped over the couch. The stark color of blue in the light shines like a sapphire, like the color of his eyes.

Before she can think of a _proper_ reason, Elsa is walking over to the couch, snatching the tunic, and is briskly walking out of the room.

She reminds herself to close the door quietly before she continues her pace down the hall. To where, she doesn’t really know.

Her rooms. That makes sense. She’s wearing the same dress as yesterday, and she’s carrying Michael’s tunic for a reason she can’t find.

She was sweating in it last night. Her perfume is all over it; and he will probably hate the smell and think she’s rude for not washing it. So she _has_ to clean it; it’s the right thing to do.

 _Keep telling yourself that,_ a small voice says.

As she turns the corner, heading for the spiraling staircase, Elsa yelps when she nearly careens into a young servant woman. She places her hand on her chest with a sigh as the woman says, “Oh Your Majesty, I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no, no it’s fine.” Elsa says between breaths. “I was lost in thought.”

The young woman nods, smoothing the apron tied over the skirt of her castle uniform. “I was actually on my way to get you.”

Elsa blinks, her breathing finally steady. “Y-you were?”

“Yes,” she clears her throat. “Sir Tuller had requested I come and retrieve you if you weren’t out of the room by this afternoon.”

The words slowly seep into Elsa like molasses. Did he really not want her there . . .?

No, not after what he revealed to her – that vulnerability, the rawness in his emotion . . . maybe her idea of him wanting to be alone wasn’t far off – at least she hopes.

“He – he spoke to you?” Elsa asks, trying to ignore the jealously seeing into her heart.

The woman nods, but quickly adds, “He looked really exhausted, Your Majesty. Maybe he just needs time to rest.”

_So it would seem._

She’ll still check on him in the early evening. He likely won’t eat lunch, but he should be up in time to eat some dinner.

Elsa clears her throat, blinking out of her trance. “I see. Well, I’ll be returning to my room. Tell Kai to meet me in the council room to go over my schedule today.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

With a quick bow, she turns and hurries back the way she came. Elsa turns her back to her and exhales through her mouth. She continues to her room, hugging his tunic closer to her as she turns down the familiar hallway.

She doesn’t bother knocking on Anna’s door under the assumption she’s probably still sleeping with Kristoff. She hasn’t even seen Olaf, another person she thought would come looking for her. Her heart hurts at the wonder of where the snowman went after what she had to tell him what happened.

Her skin crawls as she remembers the image of his foot stained with someone’s blood. Permeated from stepping in a puddle of it and not even realizing.

Elsa shakes her head, forcing herself to forget the image when she reaches her room. As she walks over to her closet, she tosses his tunic onto her bed, her hands reaching back and unzipping the dress – an exact remodel of when she took it off last night. Her cheeks warm at the thought.

As she tosses the dress into the whicker hamper, a chill whispers across her arms and legs, pebbling her nipples. And she can’t stop the next image to appear in her head: Michael’s arm wrapped around her waist, tugging her closer to him as she feels his warmth, so similar to cuddling up next to a fire on a rainy day. Feeling of his breath against her hair, the way he rested his chin on her head; the steady beating of his head as she nuzzled into the crook of his neck –

A knock on her door snaps Elsa out of her trance, like being pulled out of a witch’s spell.

Through the wood and metal, she can hear her sister’s voice. “Elsa?”

If it still hadn’t sounded so pained, wobbling with fresh sobs that make her sister’s voice tremble in that way that made Elsa’s stomach sink, she would’ve just pretended she was asleep.

But Elsa calls out, “One second! I’m getting dressed!”

And in a flurry of skirts and petticoats, slips and socks, Elsa is settled into a new gown of mint green. It’s fitted bodice and sleeves somehow compliment the blooming skirt that comes to hover barely an inch above her toes.

She runs her fingers through her hair in an attempt to smooth it before opening the door and finding her still-distraught sister wringing the tip of her thumb.

“Anna.” Elsa says with raised brows.

“Hey.”

“I didn’t expect to see you this early in the morning.”

Anna steps in without being invited; not that she needs to. After years of keep her door shut in her sister’s face, Elsa found it a miracle her sister still bothered to knock at all these days.

“Yeah, I just – I needed some air; go for a walk.”

With the curtains of her room pulled back, Elsa can see her sister’s eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks pink. “Have you been crying?”

Anna nods, her eyes watering as if the words had released whatever self-control she managed to scrap together before coming here. Her sister turns away, rubbing her nose along the back of her hand with a heavy sniff.

Elsa walks up to her sister, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. They embrace for a minute before she guides Anna to the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Well, at first it was all from worrying about Kristoff and seeing him in that state with Sven –”

“Are they okay?”

Anna nods, managing a smile that reaches her eyes – only just barely. “Yeah. Yeah, they’re going to be fine. Some bad bruising along both of their ribs, Sven has a sprained ankle, and a slight concussion, but he should be fine if he just rests.”

“Anything else with Kristoff?”

A shake of her sister’s head. It catches in the white light, making it look like liquid copper. “No. Other than that, the doctors said he should be fine. He’s got some bumps on his head, but he tells me he’ll be fine. Thick skull and all.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“Nothing really. Now, it’s just all the relief.” Anna sniffs, Elsa fetching her a handkerchief. “The relief to know that he’s not going to die, or he doesn’t have any life-threatening injuries; that I’m not going to lose him, even when I almost did. And just . . . a gratefulness towards Michael. Because without him . . .”

She can’t bring herself to finish the sentence. Anna folds her lips in, and Elsa places a hand over her sister’s – Anna’s hand holding the handkerchief so tight her knuckles are white.

“I just, can’t believe his first instinct was to save Kristoff, and not himself.”

Elsa is quiet for a moment before saying, “I can.”

Anna looks to her. More color has flushed to her cheeks, and the tip of her nose. Elsa shrugs. “He’s a soldier, Anna. Or, _was_ at least. He doesn’t just forget all that training; especially if it’s all he knows.”

“I just didn’t realize how much he cares about Kristoff; and probably cares for all of us.” Elsa nods. “I mean, we’re on good terms – have been since the ball – but I thought there was still this, disconnection, that we had. Glad to see I was wrong, but I wonder what else he might be hiding.”

“Or shielding, for better words.”

“I’m just so touched. And forever grateful.” She blows her nose, Elsa cringing at the sound, and wipes her eyes on the back of her hand. She turns to Elsa. “So, how’s Michael.”

Elsa’s heart jars into her throat, even when she feels the sudden fast beating in her chest. She swallows it down, clearing her throat. She turns her gaze to her knees. “He’s . . . coping.”

Anna’s brows knit together in worry. “Is he okay?”

Elsa shrugs. “Physically: he’ll be fine. But his mind . . .”

Her shoulders slack as she remembers the haunted gleam in his eyes, the way his voice choked upon his confession of what that woman dragged him through.

“Look, this has to stay between you and me. Do not mention anything else unless he says so. Okay?”

Curiosity and an underlining seriousness fills her sister’s cerulean eyes.

Elsa takes a breath as she closes her eyes. “Michael confided to me that he lost his parents. He didn’t say how, and I didn’t pay it much heed because, we had something in common. But now . . .” she swallows past her tightening throat. “Now I’m wondering . . . he might’ve lost his parents in a horrible way.”

She can’t stop the hitching in her tone, not as she drifts her gaze outwards, staring into nothing.

“He said that, at the temple, before he had a magical eruption, there was a woman there. And she was in town during the explosion. He . . . he said she dragged him through his memories . . . and not the good ones.”

Anna has gone completely still.

“When I got out there, all I saw was this . . .mass of darkness. It had no distinct shape, until I saw Michael break through it. And he looked . . . so different. The color was drained from his skin, he was covered in his own vomit and . . . that’s the most terrified I’ve seen him look.”

“I didn’t know.” Anna says, almost as if to defend herself.

Elsa gives a lifeless chuckle. “It’s not your fault. He didn’t tell us, and we didn’t ask. But look, I’m telling you this in confidence. Don’t. Say. Anything.”

Anna nods her head in agreement.

“He’s resting in his room and has been since last night. He seemed more, clearheaded than before, but his eyes still look so . . . haunted.”

“Should we check on him?”

Elsa shakes her head “I just left his rooms not too long ago. Let’s just let him sleep for now and we’ll see how he is for dinner.”

Another nod from Anna, and a knock at the door turns both sisters’ heads. Elsa gets up, smoothing the skirt of her gown as she answers. Behind it stands Kai, his hands folded behind him in his usual posture, but Elsa can see his eyes still clouded, his face seemingly gaunt.

“Your Majesty.” He says with a dip of his chin.

“Good afternoon, Kai.”

The steward’s eyes flick to Anna behind him, giving another dip of his chin. Anna rises from the bed and wipes her eyes before balling the handkerchief in her hand.

“How are things around town?” Elsa asks as she motions Anna to step outside. She lets her sister go first before following, silently closing the door behind her.

The three of them begin to walk down the hall. “Well, the courtyard has been cleared, workers are already cleaning up the . . . mess.” He says with a tight swallow. “Unfortunately, we did have losses in the initial explosion; the numbers between the dead and the injured are constantly changing.”

In her periphery, Elsa could see her sister grow pale.

“What did they discover, if anything?”

“Well . . . the Captain of the Guard is still waiting for some confirmation from Michael, as there have been many reports matching his description – indicating he was in the area – but it’s been led to believe that the initial incident happened at the clock tower. Some guards found evidence tying it to the incident.”

“Anything else?” Kai’s silence makes her turn to him, and she finds him gravely pale. “Kai?”

The steward snaps his gaze to her, as if broken by a witch’s spell. He folds his lips in and clears his throat. “Yes, well. The did find . . . a body.”

The three of them pause their walking. To Elsa’s surprise, it’s Anna who asks, “Of what?”

Kai looks like he’s going to be sick. “I wish to not recall the exact details, Your Highness, but . . . it was something that looked very similar to what was at the Suitor’s Ball.”

Elsa can feel her heart jump in her chest. A cough from Anna makes Elsa think she’s going to be sick.

“A demon?” Elsa asks. A grave nod from the steward. “Was it . . . dead?”

“Yes, thank goodness.” The steward’s face seems to lighten at the fact. “And there was another thing, the captain reported about some strange markings found under the soot and smoke of the scene.”

Elsa turns to Anna, speaking to her directly. “Michael had mentioned about a strange looking alphabet at the murder scene.”

“Think they could be related?” Anna asks.

“Maybe, but I’m not certain. I’d rather have Michael look and confirm.”

Kai asks, “Shall I fetch him for you, My Lady?”

“No. No let him rest, for now. I’ll check on him later this evening.”

The steward gives another dip of his chin. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Should I even ask what’s on the agenda for today?” Elsa asks, unable to hide the groan in her tone, but Kai doesn’t seem to mind.

“Well, we do have plenty of paperwork from yesterday’s events.”

Papers that she has to write and sign, giving her condolences for the loss of so many loved ones – men, women, children . . . She’ll also have to sign insurance papers, granting the mourning families the compensation. And all the while, it will never feel like enough.

Her stomach churns at the thought: of people starting to grow restless, and angry; staring to lose faith in her because their magically endowed queen couldn’t save their loved ones. Because their magical queen didn’t spring into action when a magically summoned demon had invaded the town square. She’s still making it up to all of them for the eternal winter she set of three years ago – though truthfully, in her mind, she will never be able to make it up to them. And though she may bear the weight of the crown, she doesn’t want to live in constant fear of trying to please her people.

She will always do what’s best for Arendelle and will do everything she can within both realms of her power to protect them and listen to their problems. But she will never grovel at the feet of her subjects.

Anna must’ve sensed her growing anxiety, because she feels the warm fingers wrap around her hand, locking them together like two fitted puzzle pieces. Elsa looks to her sister and gives an appreciative smile.

“If you need any help, I’m here.” Anna says.

Elsa gives a sad smile and nods. “I’d like that.”

Perhaps it’ll also mean more to the families to have condolences from both the queen and princess.

Elsa loops her arm around Anna’s, the two sisters pressing their heads together as they resume their walk towards the office.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur, Elsa too preoccupied with Michael and wondering when he’ll get up. She had only managed to shift her focus as she and Anna took turns writing out all the letters and signing all the documents that needed to be sent out to the affected families. Despite the overall template being the same, Elsa is both grateful and hurt at the seemingly insensitivity.

She and Anna would always start their letters with the same introduction, expressing their condolences for their loss, and ending it with a sum of money that is to be granted to the persons. With every stroke of the pen, Elsa can’t fight the oily pit of despair in her stomach.

How old was the one couple’s son?

How long until the fiancé was to get married?

How long would they have they been married?

How many relatives did they have?

Was he a father? A grandfather? An uncle?

Was she an aunt? A sister? A mother?

Who are they leaving behind?

The questions kept burning with each sign of her name, but Elsa kept going until her hand cramped, and even then, she would only allow herself a minute to massage and rest until she resumed writing despite Anna, and even Kai’s protests.

By the end of the grueling signing – for today – one of the servants had fixed a pack of ice for her, wrapped in a cold cloth and telling her to rest it on top of her hand until she turns in for the night. Elsa wanted to do more, insisting she can just use her magic to cool her frayed nerves and tendons, but Anna had to literally pry the pen from her hand – not because of Elsa’s refusal, but because her fingers were stuck in that position. Kai ended the signings for today, promising to send them all out tomorrow morning.

As she now walks down the hall, alone, constantly flexing her fingers and pressing the ice pack to the back of her knuckles, Elsa sighs as she meanders her way towards the dining hall where she can already smell the sweet steam of a large buffet.

Anna had left her once the meeting was over to go and check on Kristoff. She had mentioned he’ll be bed ridden for a couple of days, and she now has the job of checking on both him and Sven, since the reindeer has to be kept in the stables.

Elsa passes by a grandfather clock, noting the time to be five in the evening. If there was any time to check on Michael it would be now. None of his servants came to her with any concerns, which she hopes means he’s at least out of bed. She takes the stairs to his floor, becoming more and more familiar with the route to his rooms. As she approaches his door, she realizes she should have stopped somewhere just to get rid of the ice pack.

Regardless, she’s here now, and balances the pack on her forearm as she uses her left hand to knock. She’s gentle at first, careful not to startle him too much. But there’s no answer.

She presses her hear against the wood of the door, not able to hear anything beyond. She knocks again, harder this time in case he’s somewhere on the other side of his suite, perhaps even in the solarium.

Still nothing.

With her heart starting to race, she has to remind herself that none of the servants came and told her anything was wrong. None of them came to her with concerns or worried expressions –

Still Elsa grabs the handle and nearly flings to door open, the handle catching on her fingers, preventing it from crashing into the wall. At first, she scans the room too quickly to notice the lump of sheets on his bed. As she approaches, her heart sinks when she can’t see a trace of sun-tanned skin. There’s no rustling of the sheets, no sluggish moans –

There he is.

Sound asleep. The sheets and comforter have been twisted and tossed around, and Michael lays belly-down on the bed, wrapped around a pillow. The position is almost identical to the one he had been in yesterday, flung over Kristoff.

He really has been asleep this entire time.

She knew she should wake him, get him up and eat something, at least. Yet she can’t bring herself to touch his bare shoulder. Can’t bring herself to stir him from the gentle cradle of sleep that has softened his features into handsomeness. It’s the most at peace he’s looked, even if he spoke to a servant about getting Elsa out of his rooms.

Carefully approaching the bed, Elsa minds the sounds of her slippers as she comes up to his side of the mattress. She can only hope his mind is as peaceful as he looks.

She traces her finger along the tips of his hair, drawing a line across his forehead until she tucks a few behind his ear. He doesn’t stir. This kind of exhaustion, it’s bone deep. The kind that has the whole-body ache in a collective soreness that can only be solved by rest.

He can’t stop her eyes from drifting to his broad shoulders, following the dip of his spine down his back. She can’t stop her cringe as her eyes settle upon the brutal scars that commandeer his skin like jagged claws. Littler ones lay sprinkled about, some small and thin, other thick and deep. She can’t help but wonder what scar came from where – or whom. A map of adventures, some would say. Badges of honor; made to be worn like the finest jewelry, to prove to the world that a person can get through anything.

But Michael isn’t one to flaunt, and yet why wouldn’t he get the scars healed?

Elsa’s fingertips drift to his shoulder, bumping over what looks like a little necklace of scars, as if he got bit by something. She moves her hand until her palm presses against his shoulder, feeling the rock-hard muscle beneath.

Her hand moves up his shoulder towards his back, following the curve of his spine and feeling the bumps of the scars as they pass under her palm.

She makes it to middle of his back before he shifts, near frightening her out of her skin. She claps a hand on her chest as she takes three steps back, but Michael just quietly moans before rolling onto his side, cocooning himself further into the mess of sheets as he faces her direction.

When he settles, she approaches again, but this time she keeps her hand on his shoulder as she attempts to awaken him.

“Michael,” she whispers, as soft and as melodic as she can. He barely moves his head, his black hair spilling onto the white sheet of the pillow. She tries again. “Michael.”

This time his eyes tighten for a second before they flutter open, staring directly at her.

They look more aware than before, their color resuming to look like the sapphires she uses as her tell.

“Hi.” She says with a smile. The only one she hasn’t faked today; but it’s short lived when she gets little reaction from him. “It’s almost five in the evening, if you want dinner.”

His gaze averts her in contemplation. He almost seems as still as a mountain lion before it pounces, safe for the rising and falling of shoulders. She didn’t think anyone could become that still.

He still doesn’t say anything.

Instead, when she removes her hand from his shoulder, he reaches out and grasps it. He looks at it as if it were a precious gemstone, rubbing his thumb along the back of her knuckles. She almost wonders if he’s delusional – though he’s awake, part of his mind is still in the dreamworld, unaware of what’s going on, or what he’s doing.

But when his eyes look to her again, they become the most focused in recent days. Like he’s fighting back the wave of exhaustion enough to utter these words to her.

“Thank you.” His voice is hoarse; likely from not drinking enough – if any – water today. But she doesn’t have the heart to demand even that from him.

So all she does is cradle his hand between hers, leaning over and brushing a delicate kiss along his knuckles. “Please consider coming to dinner.”

It’s all she can request. It’s the simplest suggestion she can offer, and even then, she can see his eyes cloud again at the thought of having to move. She doesn’t blame him. How could she when he’s saved her, her sister, and her kingdom more times in a few weeks than some can in their lifetime.

She brushes another encouraging kiss on the back of his hand before setting it down. With not much to lose, Elsa runs her fingers through his hair, combing all the way to the back of his neck. She can’t get over how little he looks, like a lost child looking for the comfort of a mother.

He blinks twice as her response, and Elsa clears her throat before turning and stepping down from the dais on which the bed sits. She makes it to the door before looking over her shoulder at him.

Now he’s shifted to lean on one elbow, the other arm draped along his hip where the sheet settles just below his waist.

Elsa bites her tongue on how enticing the image looks. She looks away and forces herself to open the door and step out into the hallway. She closes the door behind her without another glance.

She keeps her chin high and her head straight as she heads towards the banquet hall. She walks in and finds Olaf sitting at the table for six. A door opens from the opposite side of the room and in steps Anna, looking like she’s just come from tending to Kristoff. The sisters round the table to one another, sharing a deep embrace before giving one to Olaf.

They each take their seats, the servants immediately coming in and presenting napkins and silverware, and wine.

As they begin the first course, Elsa keeps peering at the door on either side of the room, hoping he’ll walk in at some point.

She keeps waiting, keeps looking, even as they work their way through each course. It isn’t until the desserts come does she let her heart sink; only kept afloat from the way he looked at her – with such pain and fatigue.

Michael never joins them for dinner.

Michael doesn’t even get out of bed that day. And he doesn’t get out of it the next.

Or the day after that.

Or the day after that.


	28. Chapter 28

On the third day of him not leaving his rooms, Elsa had ordered more guards posted by his front doors.

On the fifth day, when the guards still claimed he hadn’t left, Elsa nearly tripled the routines of servants to check the room.

He would notice the difference, but she doesn’t care. Especially because she doesn’t know when he last ate or drank water. If it weren’t for her duties as queen, she would’ve spent all day and every day with him until he returns to the man she’s grown accustomed to.

The man she now finds herself craving the attention of.

She’s at least advanced enough in their training to show Anna some of the basics in swordplay. Michael had promised he would teach her, but with the state he is in, Elsa took over, only showing Anna what she herself had mastered.

Her sister is strong, if a bit clumsy. Elsa can see Michael molding it into her benefit, making it more of a strength. That is, if he even bothers to train them anymore.

Sitting at the large oak desk of the castle study, Elsa sighs as she signs another piece of paper and casually tosses it onto the ever-growing finished pile. The letters to the mourning families are finished, and now it’s back to the usual paperwork that comes with being queen.

She’s been here for five hours since breakfast, and she’s long since given up on trying to read every letter, having reduced to signing her name where she sees fit. Primarily requests for rebuilding and construction due to the damage left by that demon-creature. Other things such as apology letters to the suitors of her ball a few nights ago, she chucks into the pile set for tomorrow, uncaring at this point. She’d rather chuck them into the trash.

She gives a heavy sigh as the sun warms her back from the window behind her. She’s been along for most of the morning into afternoon, Anna no doubt busy with Kristoff, and Kai having left to do whatever else it is her steward does in his day. She when she hears footsteps approaching the study, she assumes he’s returned with more paper for her to sign.

“It’s a lovely day to be cooped up inside,” a male voice says. He sounds so normal, so like himself that Elsa nearly falls out of her chair.

Michael is standing a few feet away, leaning against the doorframe with his hands tucked into his pockets.

Elsa couldn’t have stopped herself if she tried, she tells herself. Not as she nearly flings herself out of the chair and launches into Michael’s arms, his name a relieved whimper on her lips. Immediately they wrap around her as she twines her own around his neck.

He smells of lavender and thyme, like he’d just gotten out of the bath. Only confirmed by the smoothness and sweet smell of his hair. He buries his nose in the crook of her neck, and Elsa tries to contain how her skin nearly sings at the contact, how the goose bumps wash over her like a wave on shore.

She can’t, however, stop the giggle that breaks past her lips as he hugs her tighter, near lifting her all the way to the tips of her toes. Gods, she didn’t realize how much she missed his warmth until this moment. Whether he’s still warm from the sheets of his bed, or from the bath water, it feels even more refreshing than the afternoon sun.

She doesn’t want to pull back, but she forces herself to as she gazes upon his face. Those days of sleeping did nothing for him, apparently; he is grave and pale, but his eyes shine with faint amusement. He wears a dark blue tunic she’s never seen before, with golden embroidery that glints in the dim light. In fact, his whole outfit looks new.

Did he somehow go shopping without her knowing?

“How long have you been in here?” he asks, withdrawing his hands from her hips. She didn’t even notice they had slipped down.

Elsa clears her throat as she walks back over towards the table. Suddenly the paperwork has become very important. “Um, since after breakfast, which was at nine.”

He follows her with a feline gait. “Days never stop for a queen, does it?”

“I’m afraid not.” She admits. If it wasn’t for her own sense of obligation, in combination with the city trying to rebuild itself, Elsa would’ve taken a break long ago. Now she’s glad she didn’t.

“Do you think you could spare a moment . . . for me?”

Elsa is about to sit back down when her head nearly snaps to look at him. She could’ve sworn she saw color blooming onto his cheeks.

And then he is smiling. Hesitantly at first, then he shakes his head, and the smile blooms wide enough to show his teeth.

Honestly, she’d take a whole day for him if he asked.

“Is there something I need to see? Did something happen?”

“No,” he says, tucking his hands back into his pockets. “No, nothing like that. I just wanted a walk.”

She has the faintest idea of what topics will come up during this walk, but despite the fear of it, she’s had enough time being caged in this office. And the day truly did seem lovely outside.

So, she puts the pen back into the inkpot, organizes the paper as best as she can and smiles brightly as she aims for the door. He steps aside, letting her through before shutting the door behind her.

She figures she’ll let him lead the way as they meander through the hallways and down some stairs. Their take their time with the walk; casual, unhurried like someone does when perusing the marketplace. All the while, their conversation doesn’t stop. They are a comfortable, casual distance apart, but . . . but he is talking. His shoulders are relaxed, his gait smooth. So different from the man of shadow and darkness that she’s always seen.

But he is talking. To her.

They make it to the castle gardens, Michael’s attention now diverting towards the weeping willows, the color blooms, even to the sky up above, speckled with fluffy clouds this afternoon.

Even with his face still seemingly troubled, he still looks brighter than before. Her heart aches at the thought of how he might’ve slept all during those days, haunted by whatever nightmares that woman had dragged him through. She should’ve been there for him. She should’ve checked on him herself.

It is only when he looks at her again that she realizes she’s been staring, trying to pick out the difference between this smile and the horrid expression of fear and agony she’d seen when he burst from that cloud of impenetrable darkness.

As if he can read his thoughts, he says, “I wanted to apologize for my behavior lately. I haven’t . . . been myself.”

Or he’s just been a part of himself that he usually keeps tucked away, deep within his own silent darkness, she thinks. Her own chest hurts at the memories of when she herself was tucked away in the silence of her rooms. And she says, “I understand.”

And from the way his eyes soften, that’s all she needs to say.

Michael looks down at his feet, rolling his shoulders to relieve tension. “How have Kristoff and Sven been faring?”

Elsa shrugs her own shoulders. “A few minor injuries. Nothing they can’t recover from on their own. Anna has barely left his side for the past few days.” Michael simply nods in response. Elsa bites her lip in contemplation, but then she says, “She’s very grateful to you . . . for what you did.”

He only looks to her for a moment before his eyes go back to his feet. Could it be he’s being . . . bashful? Elsa tries to fight a grin as they pass under an arc of wisteria.

“Kristoff seemed to be in shock that you went for him.”

Another nonchalant shrug. “It’s all from the training. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? Especially since he went for the effort of trying to get to know me.”

Elsa blinks, admiring his profile; the way the light of the sun casts across the panes of his face, shadowing the line of his jaw.

“I wish I could’ve seen it.” Elsa says abruptly, instantly clamping her mouth shut.

Michael narrows his brows. “Why?”

Elsa covers her mouth, her heart racing, flooding the color fast to her cheeks. “I . . . I don’t know.” He’s still looking at her, his lifting in question. Elsa fiddles with the tips of her fingers. “It’s just . . . the way Kristoff described it – how you completely switched your demeanor: ordering the guards around, getting him to his feet. To see that soldier side of you, it just seems . . . incredible.”

There. A truth is out there. An awful truth rooted in morbid curiosity.

A heartbeat of silence.

“ _Incredible_ isn’t exactly how I would describe it.” Michael says dryly. 

Elsa is regretting her words, ready to just drop the subject entirely, until –

“Like I said, it’s all just training. There’s so very little I’m proud of when it comes to the rebels, but _that’s_ one of them.”

Elsa grabs his hand, making them pause underneath one of the weeping willows.

“What do you mean? You were a soldier.”

“Doesn’t mean everything I did was valiant, and noble.”

“It can be for a cause you believe in.” Elsa insists.

Michael heaves a sigh that tells her he doesn’t fully believe her, or her words. He shuffles and goes to sit on one of the wooden benches perched under the willow. He runs his fingers through his hair and leans back, fisted hands resting atop his knees. Elsa joins him, the skirt of her dress pooling like liquid int the grass.

It’s a mint green piece of simple design, Elsa having added her own construct of ice sequins along the front of the skirt; curling whorls that twine like the vines crawling up the castle walls. There is no train with this one – in fact there haven’t been many dresses she’s worn with trains lately – and instead the dress has long gossamer sleeves that are loose and billowy, falling off her shoulders before gathering at the wrist.

“It’s just . . . what makes my rebellion different from the rest? It caused war, there was so much loss, on either side. Even if we were more considerate for the lives of our soldiers . . .”

Elsa folds her lips in before carefully saying, “Michael, if your cause led to a better world, a better _future_ , then you shouldn’t feel ashamed of yourself. You didn’t willingly and gleefully risk innocent lives to further your rebellion. You only targeted adulterous spouses and corrupted politicians.”

Michael shakes his head, his sapphire eyes sliding towards her. “It’s not that I’m ashamed of the outcome; the kingdom is way better off. It’s just . . . at what cost? The things I saw. The thing I did . . .”

Oh. _Oh_.

He’s staring down at his hands, as if he can see all the gathered blood of every life he took while in service. The nobles he tricked and seduced, the enemy soldiers he likely tortured . . .

“Perhaps I’d been so blinded by the anger of my parents’ death that I couldn’t see what was actually right and wrong. Who really deserved to die, and who didn’t.”

Icy dread fills her stomach. “Is this about the memories that woman made you see?”

His mouth thins, and he croaks, “Yeah. Made me realize what a despicable person I am.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But it is true.” He keeps his gaze straight, staring into nothing. “You can assume the kind of things I had to do.”

She doesn’t that often, but even still, it makes her feel queasy, like oil in her blood. She doesn’t know what possessed her ask her next question, and she immediately regrets it.

“Were you ever captured? Taken prisoner?”

He says without looking at her, and surprisingly, without hesitation, “Yes.”

Elsa didn’t know what she expected – well, yes, she did; she didn’t expect him to even answer – but still that single word ripples through her, sending goose bumps across her skin.

“How long?” she whispers.

A slow blink. “To be honest, I don’t know. I lost track of time, but not of my own accord. With magic, some of the soldiers and commanders had very . . . clever ways of torturing people. There are those with the ability to walk their way into a person’s mind. As easily as opening a door to a room. And without proper training, they explore until their heart’s content, perhaps even control the person without even realizing.”

She brings a hand to her chest as the weight of the words crack through her. Elsa has to take a steadying breath, seeing the path the story is taking.

“I was supposed to be on a covert mission, and I had insisted to the commander that I worked better alone. To spare you the details, I was arrogant and still broken from the death of my parents. And it all led to me being captured. I would be tortured for hours, physically . . . and mentally. Sometimes it would be my body for one day, or for one hour, my mind the next, or sometimes both. Days felt like years, and years felt like days. Whenever the torturer was done, or even during it, sometimes, _they_ would worm their way into my mind. They would spin fantasies that felt so real . . . felt so normal.” His lip trembles. “It almost felt like I was home.”

Half of her doesn’t want to know, but she asks, “What kind of dreams were they?”

A long pause. “It doesn’t matter now.”

She bites her lip, her heart skipping a beat. Too soon – even after all this time.

Then it clangs through her like the Yule bell on Christmas . . .

Michael was barely out of his teens when he joined the rebellion.

When he had lost everything.

Of course things like that would be branded in his mind.

“The healers repaired me after each session. Those agonizing, and terrifyingly calm in-between moments were filled with sweet-smelling sedative smoke. Until everything blurred together, and time became an illusion.”

Erase his scars, and they stood a better chance at tearing apart what he perceived as real and fantasy.

Her eyes flick to the scar atop his right hand. Her brows furrow. “But if they healed you so proficiently . . .” She pauses, unable to ask the question. But she raises her hand and points her finger towards the scar.

Michael follows her gaze and an unnerving smile creeps across his lips. He lifts his hand up in front of him, splaying his fingers.

“This was the one scar they couldn’t heal. When I initially broke my hand, I made sure to rub salt into it so it never _could_ truly heal. They couldn’t have one without the other, because each was a reminder to me on what was real and not real. They couldn’t hide the scar and not fix my fingers, nor could they fix my fingers while still leaving the scar. And if they left it all together, that question of: _Where did that come from_ , always came up. They were screwed no matter what, so instead they tried to convince me that I had an accident. But I knew better. I knew that a scar that deep wasn’t caused by running around the yard with my knife. And I could never forget that pain. It was so deeply rooted into my soul that even if they changed the origin of how I got it, I knew deep down there was something more.”

Because of having to bring the hammer down again and again and again and again.

Another imprint.

“I didn’t break. I didn’t tell them anything, and eventually they gave up.” Michael continues, lowering his hand and bracing his elbows on his knees, “and they just started torturing me like every other prisoner of war; stopped the sedatives, stopped the fantasies. And even after I was rescued, when _our_ healers offered to help me, I refused. Well, I _screamed_ my refusal at them. I wanted something to help me remember what had been done to me, what I had endured and what I survived.”

No wonder he had so many scars.

No wonder he didn’t let anyone touch his injuries.

No wonder he might fear even the gentle caress of his healing magic, compared to the wildfire that accompanied it in his veins.

His hands are shaking enough that Elsa reaches out and cradles them in her own. She almost cringes at the difference. His so rough and gritty, while hers is as smooth as freshly fallen snow. The callus on his palms and fingers rasp against her skin.

“Hatred was the only thing that got me through it. Not hope, not love. Only unrelenting, raging hatred. That camp had taken everything from me all over again: every scar and marred skin I had earned while at my family’s home . . . it was gone. _My parents_ were gone, again. Erased. From then on, I was careless. I didn’t care how hurt I got, because it was just further validation for me that _this_ isn’t a dream. Isn’t some memory that happened in a flash.”

Elsa knew from the beginning he never wore his scars like some fine jewelry or silk. Never wore them to gain attention or show bravado. And yet it breaks her heart to know this true reason.

That almost every day he wakes up, worried that this is all just some twisted fantasy, and that he’s actually back in the torture chambers of his enemies. That with every cut he gets, every bruise, and any and every amount of pain elicited upon his body just help remind him that he is alive and whole.

And here, with her.

 _Wait_ , _what_?

She doesn’t let herself consider as she shakes her head. “You never tried to escape?”

A cold, hollow chuckle. “I did; several times. That’s how I got those lashings.” Michael says, jabbing a thumb over his back to the jagged scars that claw their way down his back. “Pretty sure I pissed them off _because_ I kept escaping so many times. After that . . . I don’t think I ever left that stone alter. They just kept me chained to it, binding my hands and feet for good measure.”

Elsa knew those were shackle scars, but never had the guts to say anything. A cloud moves in front of the sun, casting a gray shadow across the garden. She didn’t even notice how quiet the garden has become.

She pushes her braid over her shoulder. “Michael, why are you telling me all of this?”

Michael frowns. He looks down at their hands, her ivory skin contrasting with the deep gold of his. Elsa holds her breath, waiting for him to snatch his hand back. She’s not disturbed by what he’s told her; far from it, in fact. She’s just, curious.

Then he says, “Because I know how _I_ see myself. And during those days on that stone altar, I felt like I had deserved everything that had been done to me. That I had deserved death. Now, after being dragged through my memories, seeing all the things I’ve done . . . I guess – I guess I just want an outside perspective. To see if I truly am as despicable as I feel, as I was shown.”

He looks to her, his eyes as hollow as they were on the pier. The weight of that stare presses into her skin, warming her face. She rubs her thumb across his knuckles, the same way he did for her. “Do you still rely on anger to get you through the day?”

A single blink. Then another. “No. For some days, yes, but overall. . . no. It’s been quite the opposite, lately.”

Her cheeks grow warmer. He begins to withdraw his hand, but she clamps her fingers around his. “You might think you’re a horrible person, Michael, but you’re not. You might see yourself, but I see you too. I see your kindness, and your bravery . . . your selflessness.” She pries open his fingers, lazily tracing her finger in a circle in his palm. “You are not a horrible person, Michael. You’ve been dealt a _heavy_ hand in life, and yet you didn’t let _any_ of it harden your soul in cruelty. You’re not bad person, and you never will be.”

She withdraws her hand as casually as she can, trying not to notice how his fingers seem to hesitate to let go; similar to how he gripped her wrist when she had tucked him to bed.

Michael blinks, as if snapping from a witch’s spell, and leans back into the bench. Elsa mimics the movement, relaxing her arms in her lap. They sit in comfortable silence, listening to the returning chirpings of the birds and ducklings; the gentle whisper of the willow’s vines as they waft in the gentle summer breeze.

A few moments pass by when Michael says, “I still need to properly thank you for what you did for me.”

Elsa’s heart races, her posture stiffening. A part of her had hoped he forgotten about it, even the part where she shared his bed to comfort him.

And yet . . . the other half of her . . .

She does her best to shrug simple. “You did, technically.”

Michael snorts. “I’m almost insulted a queen would consider _that_ a thank you.”

“Why? You meant it, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did.” Michael says as he drapes a muscled arm along the back of the bench. “But I was still rather . . . lucid. Not fully there.”

Fair enough. His eyes had seemed glazed at the time. Elsa herself didn’t really know if he was truly _seeing_ her, or some figment of his imagination.

He stands up from the bench, stretching his arms long and up over his head. Elsa blinks at the many pops she hears go through his back and up those arms. With a pleased sigh he takes one step towards her, utterly closing the space between them, and holds out his hand.

Though she’s used to the gesture as queen, seeing it come from him was – different. A rouge rebel soldier gesturing to a queen with respect and perfect etiquette. She reaches out, her fingers once again grazing along the callus of his palm, seeing the mold of the sword handle fitting perfectly in place.

As his hand wraps around hers, as he effortlessly pulls her to her feet, Michael leans in, closing the space between them. His mouth brushes over her cheek. Brief and light and sweet.

Yet still it tingles through her skin like pins and needles, traveling through body and pebbling her nipples.

“Thank you,” he mumbles into her skin. Gods, is that a purr in his voice?

Elsa can’t help herself as she presses her cheek into his lips. The motion has her own grazing along his smooth skin. It smells like he shaved this morning; fresh and strong, yet rugged. It nearly undoes her.

Michael pulls back, giving a charming smile; as if doesn’t notice that she can’t move a single muscle, can’t utter a single word. The urge to grab him, to pull his face down to hers and mold their lips together practically blinds her.

She at least manages to bring her arm up to cover pebbling breasts, masking it as the urge to fiddle with the end of her braid. Still her fingers twitch as if she can feel those hard muscles beneath them.

“Here, I also wanted to give you this.”

It spears through her thoughts and she clears her throat. “What is it?”

Michael reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box that’s a little bigger than his palm. Elsa blinks at it, bewildered. Her mind flashes at what it could be, easily dismissing it because it would make no sense for him to buy her one.

But he opens it, and a gasp fills her chest. She claps her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.

Inside the box sits a beautiful necklace of amethyst and blue topaz, modeled like the many snowflake motifs and sequins designs she puts on her dresses, around the courtyard.

The three diamond-shaped charms cradle the blue topaz, joined together at a glittering amethyst that connects to the silver chain.

Elsa can only gape at the beautiful piece, stunned and flattered at how well it matches . . . well, _her_. From the color to the snowflake design. It’s like he has every aspect of her memorized.

Finally, her mind begins to process words again; though not that fully. “What –? What is –?! Why would you –?”

“It’s just a gift. Something to show my own appreciation to you, especially after what you did for me.” Michael grins.

“You – You didn’t have to do this.” Elsa says, unsure of what to say.

“You insisted I take the payment. It was just supposed to be a simple gesture, but after what you did . . . it means a lot more now.”

No doubt it’s also the reason he finally decided to get out of bed. It might be wishful thinking, but . . . he did get out of bed to give her the gift. He got out of bed, for _her_.

His fingers delicately loop the chain around and pull it from the box. “May I?” he asks.

Elsa nods, clamping her mouth shut when she realizes it’s still hanging open. Gods, her tongue might as well have rolled to the floor.

She turns around, facing the bench and the trunk of the willow, and the small gatherings of flowers.

Gods, her heart is starting to race.

She attempts to look over her shoulder as she hears Michael fiddle with the chain. But as she’s about to glimpse, the necklace glints as he brings it over her head to her front.

The metal is warm from being inside his pocket, the gems near swallowing the sunlight. They glow like a blue and purple fire, gleaming like a polished sword.

It sits right in between her collarbone. Her fingers tickle the charms, tracing along the chain. She turns back to him, giggling when she finds him smiling.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“It’s . . . it’s beautiful.” Elsa says through a breath of a laugh. “How does it look?”

His eyes linger on the charm, but she could’ve sworn they flicked up to her lips, and then down at her breasts.

Because of this, she doesn’t know what he’s talking about as he responds, “Beautiful.”

After a couple more blinks, Michael clears his throat and slides his hands into his pockets. As if on cue, a clock tower sounds from the city; the chime signaling it is noon.

“Well, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’ll let you get back to your joyous paperwork.”

Elsa chuckles. “Oh! And don’t forget to talk to Anna about training.” His eyebrows lift in surprise. “I’ve taught her all of the basics you showed me, and she has potential. She’s been wanting to tell you.”

Michael nods, seemingly grateful for a change of topics as she is. “Thanks. I’ll try and find her, once I’m done with my meal.”

He’s eating. That’s good.

Elsa sighs, dipping her chin towards him. He notions her to follow, probably to lead her back to her office. But her cheeks are still so warm, her body still pulsing with a ravenous desire.

So she lies, saying, “I need to take a quick detour before I get back. Get myself some more air before I have to be cooped back up inside again. But I’ll see you around the castle.”

He must’ve felt something, because he doesn’t argue, nor tease as much as she expected.

Regardless, they turn their backs and walk in opposite directions. Elsa tries to keep her pace smooth and patience, unhurried. But as soon as she turns two corners and a third one for good measure, she breaks out into a full sprint towards her rooms.

She shuts the door behind her, hurrying over to the vanity to see the necklace. She almost laughs at herself, without how wide her smile is, and that feminine but childish glint in her eyes.

Gods, the necklace is so beautiful.

Clasping it between her fingers, Elsa stands from the vanity with blushing cheeks and a beaming smile. The wave of jubilance instantly has her twirling and dancing around her room.

Wonderstruck.

Enchanted.


	29. Chapter 29

Michael fights a burp as he sits on one of the leather-padded benches in the castle’s painting room. There are papers and books to his left, having intended to use the room as a place to study. But the words on his notes are starting to blur, his eyelids feeling heavy. Perhaps he shouldn’t have devoured nearly three whole meals before dedicating himself to his studies. Let alone in the second quietest room in the entire castle.

He’s lost precious time trying to figure out the odd runes and murders going around the kingdom. And while a part of him feels so ashamed . . . it really felt like there was nothing he could do.

And now is not the time to be thinking about it now. Especially when that lead weight has barely lifted off of his shoulders. His walk with Elsa helped; even more so when she loved the necklace. But once she left, a little bit of that weight pressed back onto his chest.

It was really the only reason he got out of bed. A young servant man – one he didn’t recognize for his rooms – had knocked on his door saying a package had arrived for him. The woman who was in his rooms at the time answered for him; Michael still feeling too heavy to even turn over in bed.

But once she approached with the velvet box and said who it was from, it was like a knife of white lightning shattered through the fog in his mind. He sat up in bed – too quickly from the dizziness in his head – and practically snatched the box from the poor girl. He vaguely remembers giving a piss poor apology, before throwing the sheets off and hurrying to the bathroom as quick as he could without running.

Seeing her eyes light up with such joy, such amazement . . .

Now it would seem that energy has dissipated. But Michael would be damned if he let himself crawl back into that bed. Not after the way Elsa threw herself at him, literally. And because she has been so worried that she nearly doubled the amount of tripled the number of guards and servants to keep an eye on him. The room was beginning to feel more like a cage, but hopefully after seeing him today, she’ll call everything off.

With a heavy sigh, Michael attempts to look at his notes one more time. When comparing what he’s scribbled down at the crime scene, to the books he pulled from the library, they seem very similar. Unfortunately, with the runes at the murder being written in blood, some of the letters were left looking more curved than straight like in the book. He almost wants to consider it being from another culture, but that would broaden his search dramatically and make it harder for him to find out where it comes from. Even with their collection, it doesn’t seem like Elsa and Anna have many other books outside their culture. 

The second problem is being able to understand what the marks even mean, what they translate to. He tries to remember what his fellow soldier Danika had mentioned about runes, overall.

No matter what culture they’re from, runes are a kind of neutral magic. They can be used for both good and evil, it just depends on the user. To use runes, they need to be written down or chanted, usually the preferred ink is blood. He shudders at the memory of the crime scene. There was blood everywhere, the writing so thick it dribbled down the brick stones, near smudging the marks.

He remembers something about how a person has to have magic in their veins in order for the runes to even be effective, but that was something he never really believed, or could never clarify. There were plenty of both magic and non-magic users who could utilize the marks just fine.

The skill really fell into knowing what marks a person was using, and how. Runes can have a million different meanings, with many more intentions if not written properly. Just one small mistake, and a healing spell can end up splitting a person in half. They weren’t encouraged much among the rebels, only using ones that were necessary, like for the healers.

He knows the ones written at both the murder scene and the clock tower are being used for summoning; their preferred contact being demons. But the ones that were at that temple . . . they still summoned, something . . . But instead of demons, they summoned something within _him_. With such vague and thin lines dividing the differences between the runes, it’s no wonder why only the Master Scholars and sorcerers could use it. Even then they have to go through rigorous trials just to get qualified, but all within good reason, at least in his opinion.

Michael sighs, crossing his ankles and leaning his back against the wall, mindful of the painting’s frame resting at the base of his neck.

He’s really not going to get anywhere just by looking at the notes. He can stare at them all day and the only thing he’ll succeed in is giving himself a headache. He needs to learn Old Norse, maybe then these things will make sense.

“Do you do anything else besides read?” A female voice suddenly chimes.

Michael looks up to find Princess Anna peeking into the room, a hand on the threshold. Her eyes seem dimmer compared to their usual shine; full of naïve amusement and fun. But given what’s happened over the last few days . . .

“Ha ha.” Michael amuses. “Do you do, _anything_ in this castle besides prancing the halls with Olaf?”

The princess takes the banter in stride as she approaches. “As a matter of fact, I do. I just got back from a meeting regarding the plans for my birthday party.”

Michael’s brows lift, his eyes widening. “Oh, that’s right. I completely forgot.”

“Don’t worry. I did too.” Anna says with an exhausted giggle. She might’ve recognized it herself with the way she puts more of a spring in her step as she hops up onto the bench next to Michael’s right. The skirts of her olive gown cling to her legs as she spins, fanning out in a bloom of pink and purple embroidery, her pigtails whipping left and right.

“After everything that’s happened, it almost feels . . . wrong to be celebrating. Especially considering all the families that lost someone.”

She hops down into a sit on the bench, her hands gripping the edge of the leather cushion. Michael averts his gaze back to his papers but doesn’t see the writing. Together they sit in a palpable, yet comfortable silence.

Then Michael finally asks, “How many?”

A heartbeat of silence. “Elsa says the total count is around eighty, many more injured and still recovering.”

That weighted silence begins to settle on his heart. Desperate to banish it, Michael forces himself to say, “Maybe celebrating is just what they need. Either to forget, or to remember.”

“Remember what?”

Michael folds his lips in. “Remember that life still goes on.”

“Doesn’t sound very uplifting.” Anna says, Michael hearing the pout in her tone.

“Everyone deals with grief in different ways. Some choose to get drunk out of their minds, others choose to lay in bed for days. And that’s fine. It’s alright to sit around; be depressed for a minute; cry about it, do whatever you have to do. But don’t stay there too long. You have to get up and go on with your life.”

His voice hitches on the last few words, as if a part of him was denying the truth he was telling the princess.

Or telling himself.

“It’s not that easy, Michael.”

“I never said it was. But you also have to think: for the people who love you, or did love you, you really think they would want you to waste your life away? They would want you to succeed, because that’s _all_ they want.”

Looking over to the princess, he finds her eyes glittering, but no tears fall. “How often would you tell yourself that?”

“In the beginning, very little. I had to be told that by someone. Well, technically she punched, then slapped me, _then_ told me all the motivational stuff.”

Anna scoffs. “You have some really messed up people in your life. It’s a wonder how you turned out the way you did.”

It isn’t meant to be an insult, they both know that. More like an offering of honesty; likely the best way they can communicate with each other. One of the few ways they both can understand.

“I often wonder that, too.” He mumbles.

He decides his study session in the painting room is finished. Maybe he’ll have better focus after a nap. He’ll likely double the time of his morning training. His former trainer might be rolling in his grave with his slack.

He stands, tapping the papers into place when Anna asks, “How long did it take, for you to be okay?”

When he looks to the princess, her hands are folded in her lap, her gaze downcast. He knew what she meant. His thoughts go back to the first time they met, the first ballroom he crashed.

And that painting veiled in black.

“I’m not.” He admits. He can feel Anna’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t look as he gathers his books. “And I don’t think I ever will be. That kind of loss, the . . . trauma, it lingers. And I’ve met so little few who are willing to navigate their way back. Myself included on those, heavier days. But despite what I’ve been through, what I’ve lost, I gained some things as well.”

Such as the skills needed to defend himself. To not be the helpless little boy he was when they came. Maybe a friend or two along the way.

To escape death, he had become death.

The princess didn’t seem so convinced, and he doesn’t try to persuade her.

Not knowing what else to say, Michael changes the subject. “So, when is your birthday?”

The princess obliges him. “It’s in another week. We’re going to host it in the castle courtyard, like always.”

“Everyone invited?” Michael asks, as he finishes gathering his things.

“Yeah. With the gates open now, we have the villagers come and enjoy it too. I don’t see why we have to limit our fun to just the royalty.”

From the way she nearly sneers at the mention of royals, Michael can already assume there will be some unwanted, but forcefully invited guests. Like at Elsa’s ball. He also won’t mention how her party is going to be quite the temptation for those Inferno Assassins, or whoever they are. She seems stressed enough, and frankly, it bothers him to see the usually chipper and bubbly princess so downcast.

“Well, if you’ll allow me to join, perhaps I can save you from the poor gossips of the court.” Michael smiles as he motions towards the doors.

Anna follows with a puzzled expression. “You mean you won’t be dressed in your usual spooky, shadow black?”

Michael shrugs his shoulders, keeping his grin. “Unless you want me to stay out of sight. I don’t mind either.”

They exit the painting room, Michael closing the door behind them. The princess manages to smile. “I appreciate the offer, but I have Kristoff for that.”

“How is he, by the way?” Michael has been so absorbed in his own darkness that it never occurred to him. 

Anna nods, her eyes growing brighter. “He’s awake and talking. Sven is starting to walk around again, but we’ve been keeping him the stables still. I don’t think he could really handle the stairs yet.”

“Everything seems okay?”

“Yeah. His speech is fine, minor headache than some tea and simple medicine can’t fix.”

Michael hums. “I’m glad.”

“I can’t thank you enough, for what you did.” Anna mumbles.

“It was nothing.”

“Yes, it was.” Anna steps in front of him. “You saved the love of my life. And after everything I said –”

“You already apologized for that.”

“But there was still doubt.” She turns and rests her back against the wall, folding her arms. Her fingers fiddle with the end of one of her braids – perhaps an inherited nervous tick, though it has its differences compared to Elsa. “I guess, I was only _just_ starting to trust you. I still didn’t know where we stood, but now I do.” She faces him and smiles. “We’re friends.”

This take Michael by surprise; enough that he lifts his brows and slightly widens his eyes. “Oh, well, I suppose.”

“You wouldn’t have saved Kristoff if we weren’t.”

He doesn’t want to blanche the hope in her eyes, nor does he want to ruin this new, relationship he has. But truthfully, he doesn’t know where he stands. And he tells her so.

“Well, I actually don’t know where we stand. What I did, it was out of training; and I usually keep my business and personal separate.”

Anna tilts her head. “Why? Wouldn’t it be better? Connection around the world, and all.”

“It’s just . . .” Michael fiddles with the bent corner of a paper. “I feel like people around me have a pretty low survival rate.”

Anna’s brows furrow, her eyes softening with worry, and not fear. In a blink, they waver with understanding. “Michael, you were a soldier. You can’t blame the death of others on you when you were in a _war_.”

“It’s not just that, it’s all the times we weren’t fighting. Either just drinking in a bar or walking through the streets. As a rebel, or criminal, as our former king had called us, we had bounties on our heads. And even after we won, even after we were cleared . . . I’ve just always kept my distance.”

“What about those two friends of yours, the ones you sent the letters to?” When he looks to her with narrowed brows, Anna clarifies, “Kristoff had mentioned it while we were talking. He said they were your friends.”

“They are.” He admits. “We were part of an elite group of soldiers. They were the only ones I didn’t have to worry about, because they were the best. Everyone else . . . I just never bothered.”

“Sounds lonely.” Anna says with a droop of her shoulders.

Michael shrugs. “You get used to it after a while.”

When Anna is quiet, Michael begins walking again. She stays leaning against the wall for another few seconds before her hand grips his bicep. She nearly swings herself around to his front again. “Well, no more of that. From now on, we are friends.”

Michael chokes on a chuckle. “What?”

“You’ve proven it by saving Kristoff, and my sister – a few times by now. We’re friends now.”

“Anna –”

“If you need anything, you’ll come to us, right?”

“Anna, I can’t promise anything. Even the friendship I have with my former soldiers, it’s . . . a bit rough.”

“You seem to forget, I climbed to the North Mountain to find my sister, survived a frozen heart, _and_ saved her from my ex-boyfriend. I think I can handle ‘tough.’” Anna says with a confident grin.

“I’m just, not very good at this kind of stuff.”

“We’ll be fine. Come on, Michael.”

She extends out her hand, her pristine nails glinting in the light of the window. He looks and huffs a laugh. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

She simply says, “No.”

Michael sighs, despite feeling a bit of his own, excitement and . . . relief. He takes her hand with a firm shake. “Alright. I’ll, try.”

They continue their walk up until they reach his suite, sparing pleasant conversations, and Anna reminding him about their training. To which he agrees to start tomorrow morning, if she deigns to awaken by that time. She poked her tongue out at him.

As he has his hands on the knob, Anna exclaims. “Oh! Before I keep forgetting, we may be able to see those friends I told you about.”

Michael turns to her, “You mean the ones who can read Old Norse?”

“Yeah. We may be able to see them tomorrow. If you’re willing to take the trip.”

“Is Elsa coming?”

“Of course, we all are. And when I say friends, they’re really more like family. Kristoff’s family, actually.”

Michael’s eyes widen. “I didn’t think Kristoff had any family.”

“Of a sort,” Anna says with a cringed smile, fiddling with her fingers. “They sort of, adopted him when he was a kid.”

His heart softens at the note. “What time are they expecting us?”

“Well, depending on when Elsa can get away from her desk, I’m hoping early evening.”

Michael nods, opening the doors to his room. “I look forward to it.”

In a flash, Anna steps through the doorway and wraps her arms around his middle. Michael is stunned for a moment, holding his books and notes aloft.

“Thank you,” Anna mumbles into his chest. “Thank you for saving him.”

With his free hand, Michael pats her shoulder. Stepping back, Anna smiles before smoothing down some nonexistent stray hairs in her braids.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He finalizes, before she shows herself out.

Despite himself, despite the heavy promise, Michael finds himself humming throughout the rest of his studies.

* * *

The following morning, Michael’s bedroom door opens, and a familiar gait and clicking heels echoes through the room.

The Princess of Arendelle stops short when she finds him dangling from the beam of the solarium doorway, repeatedly hoisting himself up to touch his chin to the wooden bar.

Sweat soaks his bare torso and runs in rivulets down his tan skin. He’s been exercising for an hour already. The light of the dawn setting his skin shining like polished bronze. His body doesn’t tremble once, his form perfect and fluid with each repetition.

He doesn’t pause his exercising as he smiles at her, panting through his clenched teeth. To his pleasure, she smiles back.


	30. Chapter 30

“Mind your balance.” Michael says as his sword clashes with Anna’s.

The princess stumbles a bit, but quickly regains her balance. She’s already getting the hang of handling a sword, but Michael keeps having to remind her about her stance. Elsa is at least proud that her sister managed to retain what she had taught her. More so when Michael commented on it.

Today he’s dressed in a short-sleeved shirt of deep plum tucked into fitted taupe pants. The boots, however, are still his old pair – looking worn and near falling apart with faded patches of pigment. Still, it was a style that suited him despite it being a royal wardrobe.

She can only assume the tailors went and had clothes made from his measurements, since Michael doesn’t seem like the kind of person to shop for himself.

Elsa watches, her own sword sheathed in its scabbard at her side. Well, technically it’s Michael’s sword, but it’s hers for training today. To her right, Kristoff sits; ever observant despite not being able to train today, upon Michael’s suggestion, and Anna’s demand. They brought out some chairs to help give a little comfort between their turns. To her left, Olaf has been companying Sven while the reindeer sits on the cobblestone, his injured ankle wrapped in gauze. The reindeer is walking, though he still isn’t putting much weight on it.

Elsa was surprised to see Anna at breakfast this morning, usually sleeping in until noon. She had mentioned through a bacon-stuffed mouth that she’s training with Michael this morning, and that they’d be heading towards the Valley of the Living Rock later in the day. At first, Elsa was hesitant about taking him there; at what the trolls might reveal to him as they did for her when she was young. But it is their only option if they want any hope of translating those odd runes, and if Michael has any questions about his magic and its origins.

“Keep your guard up.” She hears Michael bark, followed by a yelp from her sister.

Elsa looks up just in time to see him hook his leg behind Anna’s, one hand snatching her sword while the other drives into her shoulder. The combination has Anna timbering to the ground and Michael pointing the tip of the blade at her nose.

“So _that_ doesn’t happen.” He grins. He lowers the sword and helps Anna to her feet. The princess grumbling as she dusts herself off. “In close proximity, the thrust is a common move to be used as it’s likely to cause more damage. If you don’t strengthen your guard, you’ll find your heart skewered on the tip of the sword.”

“Oh, how charming.” Anna continues to grumble as Michael hands the sword back to her.

“It’s what I was taught. And since you two are fighting for you lives now, it’s what I’ll teach _you_.”

“It’s important to block!” Olaf suddenly chimes, waving his stick arm. “There’s this thing in the legs called a Femoral Artery. One swipe from a sword, and you’ll bleed out in less than a minute!”

“Exactly.” Michael adds without missing a beat. The rest of them simply blink at the little snowman in shock. “So it’s important to establish your block before you even think about attacking. You can’t afford to leave yourself wide open.”

“What do you do if there’s no weapon?” Anna asks.

“In the off chance you don’t have one,” Michael starts as he signals them to switch places. “find one. _Anything_ can be a weapon.”

Elsa straps her sword around her hip, briefly giving a comforting touch on Anna’s shoulder as she switches places. “What do you mean ‘off chance’?” she asks. She quickly adjusts her forest green tunic, pulling up the sleeves past her elbow.

He spins his sword between his hands, bending his knees in a fighting stance. “Because I’ve already started making preparations for you guys to be able to conceal your weapons. I’ve sent some drawings to one of my former soldiers.”

“Is this one of your friends that you sent a letter to?” Kristoff asks from his seat.

“Yes.” Michael says, and Elsa could’ve sworn she saw a ghost of a smile. “He specializes in concealment. You’ll able to hide a dagger – at the very least – beneath your array of lovely gowns.” He gives a twiddle of his fingers to help emphasize the femininity of their gowns.

Elsa giggles despite the little sneer it draws from her. She squares off with Michael, taking the stance he’s corrected her on many times already. But this time, he doesn’t. This makes her smile, at least. She made herself grow used to the feeling in her thighs, the firmness of her feet.

“Ready when you are, Elsa.” Michael calls.

She angles her blade and takes a deep breath. “Ready.”

It felt like a blink before he is upon her. To her relief – and slight surprise – Elsa manages to block his first attack. But she’s not fast enough to block his second one, a swift but restrained jab at her ribs, enough to send Elsa stumbling back a step.

It’s all he needs to advance on her, his sword swinging wide. Though she knows he’ll never hurt her, the fear still spikes at every swing, which is what he wants. At least, that’s what he claims. Elsa learned very early on that he won’t go easy on her, royalty or not, because no threat will go easy on her. They will do far worse, he stated.

Thankfully, instead of his sword, Michael has taken to replace them with jabs of his fist. A blow for every strike his sword would’ve landed. More often than not, Elsa would’ve been dead if it were a real battle. So far, he’s already struck her three times.

She manages to block another attack, shoving him back and attempting to advance. But his guard is perfect, unwavering. She knew if she was able to advance in any capacity, it’s because he let her. In a blink, he begins his counterattack.

Forced to retreat, Elsa knew she was being herded to wherever Michael wants her. He’s playing a scenario for her; framing the idea of what might happen, what she’s doing wrong to end up in that situation.

 _Combat is about controlling conflict. Putting the battle on your terms,_ he said _. Always be acting, never reacting_.

Their swords clang together, Elsa biting back the pain in her wrists, her arms; trying to ignore the way the sword’s guard digs into her skin.

Michael swats her hand away each time, the two of them dancing across the courtyard. Then, finally, Elsa seems to gain an advantage. She goes for a killing blow; striking down like a woodman’s axe, forcing Michael to block with his blade horizontally. With two hands on her sword, Elsa directs all her strength into pushing the sword down. And it seems to work, as Michael slowly begins to lower to one knee.

But through the cross of their blades, she sees him grin through grit teeth. Elsa’s blade slides an inch across Michael’s, sparks flying.

When she feels her balance shift to her left foot, Elsa realizes her mistake.

But it’s too late.

In one smooth motion, Michael shoves his blade over Elsa’s, forcing it to the ground.

And leaving her wide open for the swift kick to her stomach.

Even as she’s sent skipping back – momentum forcing her into a backwards roll onto her stomach – Elsa knew it was reserved. She keeps telling herself that even as her back burns and she has to take deep breaths for air. She lost her grip on her sword, hearing it skitter across the courtyard.

She tries to control her nausea as she pushes herself up onto her hands. She freezes when she finds the tip of his blade inches from her nose.

As she follows the blade up to his face, she feels her cheeks redden when she finds a pride-filled smile on his lips. He turns and extends his free hand, helping her to her feet.

“Nicely done, Your Majesty.”

Elsa takes his hand with a pout; her cheeks becoming warmer and redder from embarrassment. “You don’t have to pester me. I know I failed.”

“I’m not pestering, I’m serious.” She can’t meet his eyes as she hears him sheathe his blade. Which is why she nearly flinches when she feels his fingers grab her chin. Not hard, just to coax her to look at him. “You did very well. You lasted far longer this time.”

“But I still failed.”

His smile is so gentle, his chuckle so genuine. “It’s called progress, Elsa. Your kingdom wasn’t built in a day, was it?”

“Why are you having Elsa learn this stuff?” Anna asks. “Her magic is more powerful than a sword.”

Despite her question being rooted in curiosity, Michael can’t stop the pinching of his brows, or the narrowing of his eyes. “Having power and knowing how to use it aren’t the same thing. I assumed you of all people would know that.”

The blushing of Anna’s cheeks makes her freckles stand out, and she folds her lips in and averts her gaze.

“Magic has its limits, and gods forbid something happens to where Elsa can’t use her magic, I don’t want her to be left defenseless.” Michael informs. “Besides, princess or queen, learning how to fight is an essential.”

“What do you mean magic has its limits?” Anna asks, leaning back in her chair, of which she’s scooted closer to Kristoff.

“All magic wielders claim that magic feels like a well, a hole to dig into for the power. Each have a bottom, a limit. The breaking point. Some make the mistake of taking too much ahead of time, others hold onto it for too long and they burn out mentally, or physically.”

Elsa slowly walks up to his side, her fingers grasping the charm of the necklace he gave her. She hasn’t taken it off since he gave it to her.

“This way, if one skill fails, she has another. Those with weaker gifts can deplete it easily, but in turn, it easily refills. But those with stronger gifts can take hours to reach their bottom, to summon their power at full strength. You can do other things at the same time, but there is always some part of you that is in there, pulling up more and more, until you reach the bottom. But once it’s reached, it is hard to hold back. Many can’t tell friend from foe when handling magic like that.”

Kristoff asks, “You’ve seen that firsthand?”

Michael nods. “I’ve seen soldiers be in bed for days, devouring whole feasts because of how deep they dug into their magic. How much they exhumed. I’ll spare you the details of the damage they caused.”

Elsa takes a calming breath as she remembers the frightening radius Michael’s magic caused that night at the temple. She folds her arms as her skin riddles with goosebumps at the truth behind his words.

She felt herself descending deep into a place she couldn’t name before now. She was always wondering how and where she could drudge up her magic. How she always feels like a piece of herself is left behind in the Ice Palace up on the North Mountain; in little Olaf as he walks around the castle; in Marshmallow, and those little snowgies, even in the ice decorations she’s placed on the castle.

There’s always that thin tether binding her to them, but it never really drains her magic. It’s just a connection. A trace.

“And you can’t train Elsa? Even with what you saw?” asks Kristoff.

“That’s exactly the reason. I’ve only _seen_ what the wielders do. I never participated, so I don’t have a clear understanding. Elsa needs more specialized training, and the last thing I want to do is misguide her. My colleagues will be of much better teachers to her when they respond to my letters.”

As a servant brings them a tray of water-filled glasses, Elsa asks, “Who are these people anyway? You say colleagues, but then you call them your friends.”

She hands a glass to Michael, her taking the next, Anna helping herself to the third.

Michael takes a few steadied gulps before he answers. “Well, we were certainly closer during our time with the rebels, but after our victory, we went our separate ways. And I haven’t really kept in touch with them. Mostly because I was taking odd jobs and had no real place to stay. I couldn’t have gotten their mail anyway.”

“And what do we do if they don’t answer?” asks Anna.

Michael shrugs, then look at Anna, then at Elsa. “Well we hope and pray. Unless you think your little “friends” can help you learn to control your magic.”

Elsa shakes her head. “They haven’t really helped in the past –”

“Their magic doesn’t work like that.” Kristoff interjects. “They’re more like alchemists with a little bit of shamanistic and oracular abilities. And even that’s leaving out a bit.”

As Michael gives a puzzled expression, Elsa clarifies, “Their magic is, a bit of an enigma. They showed me a possible future when I was little, about my powers. And they also erased Anna’s memory of my powers.”

Michael’s eyes grow grave, his brows knitting together. “Why would you let them do that?”

“It wasn’t really a choice,” Anna chimes. “When we were little, Elsa had accidentally struck me in the head with her magic, and they thought it was best to remove the memories.”

“How exactly does that help?”

Elsa stiffens, looking to her sister, and then to Kristoff. “When I had struck Anna, a piece of her hair turned white. The . . . elder of the group could remove the magic, and recommended we remove the memories as well. We thought it was for the best, at the time. I was so afraid of hurting her again that I went along with it.”

To this Michael softens, but she knew it wasn’t the end of his suspicions. Elsa quickly decides to change the subject. “When we arrive, know you’re free to ask them any questions about your magic?”

Everyone looks to her with rounded eyes, Elsa keeping her smile to fight back her flushing cheeks.

After a heartbeat, Michael answers, “I don’t really think it’s my place.”

“I’m sure they won’t mind.” Kristoff defends.

“I haven’t even met these people, and you want me to ask them what they know about my magic?”

Kristoff shrugs. “This is my family, Michael. Any friend of mine is a friend of theirs. I’m sure they’ll be happy to help you. When Anna first met them, they wanted me to marry her. Heck, they even tried _to_ marry us.”

Despite Kristoff’s laugh, both the sisters give cringe-laced smiles. Michael shakes his head, the corners of his mouth tugging upward.

“They mean well, but I should warn you they can be a little inappropriate, and . . . loud,” Kristoff says through a chuckle, “very loud.”

Next to him, Anna nods, her expression softening as much as Elsa’s at the mention of the trolls. She’ s only been to the valley a few times herself, and it was for certain occasions.

But each visit, even when she was little, the place had felt . . . charged. Veiled in a static-filled aura that practically filled her magic to the point her teeth ached. As if the very essence of it flowed through that valley. Her heart jumps a beat at the thought of what it could do to Michael’s magic. If it’ll overflow it like those runes did back at that temple.

Lost in her own thoughts, Kristoff’s voice lulling into a dull hum, Elsa almost misses Michael turn his head towards the front gates.

Blinking away her train of thought, Elsa follows Michael’s gaze, only to find the gates wide open and the stone bridge leading towards town. People mingle about further beyond that, workers at the docks shouting orders to one another.

She steps up to him before asking, “What is it?”

His expression is serious, but his eyes are filled with question. Elsa can’t help but admire the way the shadows compliment the panes of his face, how they sharpen his jaw and give his hair almost a bluish sheen.

“Michael?”

As if snapping him from a trance, Michael’s eyes flutter before looking to her. “Sorry. I thought I heard something.”

“Like what?”

He looks back towards the open gates. “I thought I heard someone singing.” As Elsa tilts her head, his gaze flicks between the two of them before he says, “How much more paperwork do you have to do before we leave?”

Discussion over. Fine.

Elsa shrugs. “Not too much. I should be done before then.”

Michael nods. “Let’s run through a few more exercises and then we can be done for today.”

She obediently nods, only because he still looks bothered by whatever it was he just heard. Elsa lets him switch her place with Anna, saying the princess still needs to practice her block. She giggles as her sister whines and moans as she gathers and adjusts her sword.

But as she sits down, as she adjusts her sword her purses her lip, steeling her spine as she hears the faintest sound over her shoulder.

Sounding as delicate as drifting dandelion seed.

_Ah-ah, ah-ah_


	31. Chapter 31

It was a woman’s voice, but at the same time . . . it was different.

At first he thought it was just some servant singing, and yet . . .

Something about the way it lilted through the courtyard, through the air. Almost as if it were everywhere; free and wandering and beautiful.

Haunting yet ethereal.

_Ah-ah, ah-ah_

He was hoping their training this morning would be uneventful, but instead it left him with an uneasy tingling going up his spine. Like someone taking flower petals and brushing them along his skin.

The voice was so beautiful, feeling as pure as the light of a new dawn. Yet there was something in his stomach – an innate, trained instinctual part of him – that warns of distrust.

He could feel the voice tug on the thread of his magic, or whatever thrums in his veins . . . whispering to it.

In his heart, and in his magic, he could sense its good. But at the same time, he won’t ignore his soldier instincts.

For now, he’ll leave it be. Especially when Elsa catches him staring.

He tells the sisters to switch places, trying to ignore the purr in his magic at the call of the siren song.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Hey guys! So this chapter is actually inspired by a deleted scene from Frozen II called, "The Secret Room!" Hope you guys enjoy, and everyone stay safe!~

They ended the training at noon, partly because everyone was getting hungry, and partly because Anna was complaining about how her wrist is going to fall off.

They each split to their own rooms, going about their own activities before they have to leave to visit Kristoff’s family. Though a part of Michael was nervous about them not telling him the location, he knew in his heart that the sisters are beyond lying to him, at this point. Despite him only being in Arendelle for a month.

Having showered and a change clothes, Michael now sits in Arendelle’s library once more, pouring himself over the notes and books he’s gathered, still not any closer to finding their origin or their meanings. Having sprawled himself along the couch, of which he’s seen be used in a wide set of charades, Michael crosses his ankles and rests his head against the cushioned arm.

His mind wanders. Elsa had said he’s free to ask these people, Kristoff’s family – about his own magic . . . but he’s too afraid.

He almost doesn’t want to know, because it would mean his parents had kept something from him. And he and his family were always sure to be honest with one another.

Just like Michael would’ve known if his father was a part of the growing rebellion, at the time in his old kingdom.

Michael can’t remember if he’s ever told a lie to his parents before, or if the memories of his old life are just too faded.

Once he got into the rebels, that all changed. He never would’ve thought he’d be good at something he’s rarely done. But with the skills he’d already acquired while hunting with his father, the commander just thought humans were no different.

Michael never thought himself as an assassin but . . . maybe he was just blind.

Blinded by the death of his parents, so fueled with rage and anger that it obscured his views. Looking back, given how they trained him in stealth and combat, he just assumed it was the same for all soldiers. Even as an elite, he was too young, too reckless, and too broken to care.

But in order to convincingly manipulate those nobles . . . those women . . . Lies had flowed like honey from his tongue, changing the name, the story each and every time.

You’re not a bad person, and you never will be

Her knew Elsa had meant it, both in his heart and in his mind, yet there was still this seeded doubt, because she hasn’t seen all of him yet.

Hasn’t seen the monster that dwells beneath his skin, of which he keeps chained and hidden within his darkness, alongside that wailing, grief-stricken boy.

Michael sighs with a gentle shake of his head. Now’s not the time to think about this, not when he’s still fresh out of bed. Still, he closes his eyes, opting for short nap before they all have to depart.

By the time he wakes, the sun has shifted, but thankfully he’s only been sleeping for twenty minutes. Unfortunately, with the sun’s angle, it’s reflecting off of one of the books, near blinding him.

Michael grunts with annoyance as he sits up, letting the papers fall to the carpet. The light still shines in his eye, so he has to stand to make it stop. As he stretches, hearing the satisfying pops of his stiff muscles, Michael feels a wisp of cold air tickle his nose.

He chuckles thinking it’s Elsa having crept in on him while he was sleeping, but when he turns, he finds the door to the library closed.

Perplexed, Michael looks to the windows, thinking one of the servant had opened one, or left one ajar.

Nothing. All sealed tight to keep the still dissipating summer heat out of the castle. 

Looking around the expanse of the room, Michael lubes his fingers in his mouth and holds his hand aloft. Carefully walking around the library, he catches the breeze on his pointer finger following it until –

The wall.

Michael wipes his hand before he begins to feel around the wall.

Yes! There – the breeze! The delicate brush of air that it would go unnoticed by anyone.

 _Could it be_?

With curiosity eating at his innards, his heart jumping speeds, Michael begins to knock along the paper, along the wooden designs to hear that clear hollow sound.

Then his fingers seem to slip and intend a small shape into the wall.

A sound of something round dropping and rolling into its place, then stone grinding against tone makes Michael jump back and place a hand on his dagger.

 _It is a door_!

His skin tingles as he watches a panel of wall slides to the left, hiding behind another hollow panel to reveal a small yet crowded room.

The place is dark and smells of aged and rotting things. Carefully, he steps around a mound of ancient-looking tomes gathered near the door. His gaze passes up and over the marked spines of books, bottles of random concoctions that have since turned murky, and dried hanging herbs that crumble to dust at a single touch. It makes him feel as though he is walking through an apothecary shop.

The small space has been completely dominated with spider webs over the years; the fireplace having died after chewing through its last few logs, the things burned black and filled with ash. A desk sits to the far left, sharing a corner with a bookshelf, the fireplace taking up the right corner of the room, followed by a smaller desk and more bottles and pots and jars.

The bookcases are near full, adding a few forgotten scrolls and aged trinkets. One wall has maps and pictures and even mysterious papers drawn with markings along its one side, the table to the right set with bottles and beakers and tubes that litter it.

Michael approaches, in near awe at the sight. He turns and hurries to grab a small candelabrum on one of the end tales. Calming his mind and this thoughts for a moment, he closes his eyes and feels for that well beneath his stomach.

He imagines dipping a small finger in that well, sending gentle ripples across the surface. He feels the warmth of the fire and healing magic, imagining his finger is like a matchstick. With a sharp, focused exhale, he blows on his finger.

When there’s a delicate warmth, he opens his eyes and finds a small candleflame hovering just above his finger.

Michael is careful not to let his breathy laugh blow it out as he uses it to ignite the wicks of the candelabrum. Once that’s finished, he blows on his finger again, thinking cold and dark and emptiness.

It works, and the flame is extinguished.

Stepping into the room, the smell of dust and dried things increases, Michael careful to avoid hitting anything dangling from the ceiling as he sets the candles down on the small table at the center of the room.

As he begins to browse, he starts by one of the bookshelves flanking the desk on the far left-hand side. Dusting off the spines, he tries his best to the blow them away from his face. His fingertips bump along the engraved writing, biting back his disgust of the spiders he sees scurrying towards the back of the shelf.

His heart skips a beat as his eyes settle upon one book laying flat on its side on the shelf.

“ _Magical Arts_ ,” he breathes, “ _Dangers of . . . Dark Magic_.”

No way the girls know about this room, not with how long it’s been left untouched.

But perhaps their parents . . .

One, if not both of their parents were studying magic. His heart is raging to the point where he has to swallow, his throat tight.

Pulling the book from the shelf, he opens to the middle, thumbing through the pages until something catches his eye. Flipping back, he finds a page holding a set of runes. As his eyes scan the page, his body becomes cold.

These runes match the ones he found at the crime scene! And undoubtedly the ones that were at the clock tower that day.

This is it! This is what he’s been looking for!

What else could this little room be hiding? As he further flips through the pages, he tries to find any indication of where these runes might come from.

Thankfully, there’s a page that shows the runes and their appropriate letters when translated into the common tongue.

“Nor – Northuldrian?” he whispers.

As he’s attempting to look closer, he nearly jumps when he hears his name called from down the hall. It’s Anna.

Michael tries to control himself as he near scrambles to snatch a couple other books before leaving the room. He doesn’t know what kind of mechanism opens it, yet somehow he manages to find the release and the door to the secret room begins to close. Just as it locks into place, Anna opens the library doors, her eyes quickly scanning to land on him.

“Oh! There are you!” she chirps.

He’s just finished tucking the books under his notes when she spotted him. “Is everything okay?” he asks with an even tone.

“Yeah we’re all set to go. Kristoff’s got the wagon ready.”

“Wagon?” Michael says as she scoops up the books and papers into his arms. “You mean Sven is coming? Sven is able to walk?”

Anna shrugs. “Well, when we had told him, he insisted Sven could get us there faster than any of our horses. That and he’s been dying to get out of the stables, as Kristoff allegedly translated for him.”

“And you believe him?”

“Sven did put on a convincing show. And just to be safe we got one of our physicians to look to give the okay for him to travel.”

Well, at least they got a professional opinion. “All right. Let me put these back in my room and I’ll meet you down by the stables.”

“What were you doing?”

Michael says without missing a beat, “I was just trying to do some more research on the runes. See if I could attempt to make any headway.”

“Anything?” Anna asks as they exit the library.

“Not much. But I think I found a potential lead.”

The princess’s eyes brighten, brows lifting. “Anything worth sharing?”

“Maybe, but I’m not certain, yet.” He fibs. He can’t tell them about the secret room, not yet anyway. It could deter them from going; and frankly, this trip seems far more important than a hidden room within the castle.

Most castles had secret rooms anyway, it probably isn’t something the sisters are new to. He’ll tell them when he gets back. Still, his chest stings at having to lie to Anna, especially when she’s just starting to accept him.

She bids him a quick farewell, that she’ll meet him at the stables, before turning and heading downstairs.

When she’s gone, he pauses. When has he ever cared about what people think of him? When did he even care about making friends with people?

What makes this royal family so different?

Looking down at the books and papers tucked in his arm, Michael frowns.

How could this family have grown on him so quickly? He’s only been in Arendelle for a little over a month, and yet . . .

This is the closet he’s had to a family since losing his parents.

The thought scares him, and some dark part of him demands himself to quit. To run. To sever before he gets any closer.

But then there’s another part of him – one he hasn’t heard from in years – that calls him to stay. To enjoy.

Michael turns and rests his back against the wall, next to one of the many stain glass windows. This family, they’ve been of the more . . . accepting ones in his lifetime despite their loss, their trials, they still look to the world with beauty and hope.

This kingdom, it grants anyone opportunities, everyone willing to be given a change, a chance, a life if they work hard. He still remembers, even when he found its underbelly, it was hard, it was small, and even the apartments and bars and taverns were much more decent than most other kingdoms. Including – especially – his own.

Looking back, he’s never really felt this kind of, acceptance.

He can feel his heart and mind nearly at war.

His mind is telling him to keep his distance, to not allow himself to get closer. After everything he’s done, the people he’s killed, the minds he played. Those who lost their lives because of him . . . He is unworthy of a happy life in a kingdom as beautiful as this.

For queen as beautiful as –

Michael shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair.

His heart is telling him to enjoy it. To see what else this kingdom has to offer. He’s no longer being hunted. He no longer has to run and hide, to shelter and kill. He can be happy here. He can finally settle into a home all his own.

He can even settle in with Elsa –

Another shake of his head.

What is he to do?

He’s been trained since thirteen not to trust anyone. Not to tell anyone anything about himself.

Trained to kill and deceive and disappear.

Pushing off the wall, Michael makes it to his rooms and busies himself with preparing a travel satchel, even if his mind is still wheeling.

Regardless of what he thinks, what he feels, he still needs to finish the job he was hired for. That’s all that matters. That’s what this trip is about: to find out the origin of these markings and find out their connection to these assassination attempts and that woman he saw both at the temple, and in the town’s square that day.

He should stay focused on that for now.

And remember that there’s a line with Elsa. An undeniable attraction yes, he’s not stupid. But a line.

She’s a queen.

And he’s nothing but a former soldier. Homeless and without family; no family, no land, and no dowry.

He’s nothing compared to her.

And what will he do after he’s finished this job . . .?

Michael almost doesn’t want to think about it. Because that would mean leaving Elsa . . . and Anna, of course.

He takes a deep breath, pouring a quick glass of water from the pitcher on the table before leaving his rooms and heading down to the stables.


	33. Chapter 33

Sven did look more than eager to get out of the stables, and to see the family he and Kristoff were adopted into. The reindeer gave him a near-deadly greeting when he tried to rub against Michael’s chest, his antlers almost jabbing into his eyes. But he gave the reindeer some scratches behind his ears, Sven giving a very slobbery lick to the cheek in return.

Anna and Kristoff sat in the front while he, Elsa, and Olaf sat in the back. Michael was surprised to see the little snowman coming along, but in truth, it was better than having him alone in the castle.

Unfortunately, his constant need to express certain trivial facts – which to Michael’s surprise, the snowman knew a lot – is a constant interruption as Michael tries to memorize the route from the castle to this . . . place.

They still haven’t told him where they were going, but if it’s just going to be someone’s home, he doesn’t think it’s really necessary.

In less than an hour, Michael suggests that he and Anna switch places. Both the queen and the princess seemed to pity him, and Anna agrees, letting Michael sit up front.

With a smooth vault, Michael hops over into the vacant passenger seat, Anna carefully stepping her way over towards her sister and Olaf. Kristoff doesn’t stop the wagon.

“So,” Michael says as he settles, blatantly ignoring Kristoff’s seemingly disappointed expression, “anything I should know about your family before we arrive? Anything I should avoid saying, doing . . .?”

“Um, no. I pretty much told you everything about them. They’re – they’re pretty open-minded people, I’m sure you’ll like them.”

“Then why does it seem like there’s something you’re not telling me?” Behind him, he can sense Anna and Elsa’s gaze.

Kristoff doesn’t deny anything, to Michael’s respect, and says, “Well, they’re not your usual family. And I didn’t want to discourage you from coming.”

“Kristoff, I’ve seen a lot more than you probably have. I think I can handle whatever it is you’re hiding.”

A moment of silence, and Kristoff takes his eyes off the road to look back at the sisters. Michael does to, finding concern in their eyes, though Elsa seems more relieved at Michael’s answer. She gives a gentle smile, fiddling with her fingers. Concern still laces Anna’s eyes, and her smile seems more forced.

Kristoff sighs as he turns towards the front again. He lets the reins drape in his lap, leaving the driving fully to Sven. “Well, the place we’re going, it’s not a . . . commonly visited place.”

Michael pieced that together when they started going on an off-beaten path; the wood and brick buildings slowly disappearing, birch trees and flattened grass, giving the slightest imprint of a road emerging in their place.

“We’re traveling to a place known as the Valley of the Living Rock.” Kristoff suddenly grins as the words process in Michael’s mind. “But when you officially meet my family, I don’t want there to be any ruins.”

With that, he puts his eyes back on the road. Left confused, Michael looks back to find both sisters grinning – either close-lipped or showing their teeth – it almost matches that of a conspirator’s. Not to lead him into a trap, but something about Kristoff’s family will surely leave him shocked.

Deciding to go along with their little surprise, Michael slumps into the seat and folds his arms. If he’s going to be surprised, perhaps he should just close his eyes.

The ride takes about an hour with the pace they’re going. Michael’s eyes flutter open and he sits up straight.

His heart stammers a bit as his magic begins to stir – cawing and pacing back and forth like impatient cat.

Kristoff is still driving, sparing Michael a quick jerk of his chin in greeting. Looking behind him both of the sisters seem to have dozed off as well, a thin streak of drool going down Anna’s chin and into her tunic. Elsa has since curled on her side, resting her cheek on her folded hands.

Their surroundings have changed to a mountainous foothill. Walls of rock and moss climb up on either side of them. The trees have since vanished, in their place being thick, gnarled roots and dead-looking trees. As they pass a large rock wall, Michael squints his eyes at what he thinks are swirling patterns etched into the stone, into the moss.

The sky has darkened, revealing with it a blanket of stars. But also, light – natural lights that dance across the sky for miles. They ripple different colors: shades of red, yellow, green, blue, and violet, and appear in many forms from patches or scattered clouds of light, to streamers, arcs, rippling curtains or shooting rays that light up the sky with an eerie glow.

The Northern Lights, Elsa had said it was. Or the Aurora. And against the black silhouettes of the trees, it’s impossible not to look and be entranced.

The weather has since grown noticeably warmer. And when he finds steam rising from the ground, he knew why. Natural born guizers run underneath this land, yet none of the water seems to go towards the trees. The humid air fills his nose, making it feel like he’s sweating oil.

Behind him, he can hear the sisters beginning to wake, but Michael pays no heed as his magic suddenly grows more animated. Suddenly _something_ washes over him, it’s enough of a shock that Michael gasps and claps his hands over his ears as there’s a sharp pop.

He feels a zinging current snap against his skin, raising all the hairs on his skin, tickling his fingertips. Its over in a flash, but not before it pulls at his skin, near tugging him in his seat; like it’s trying to shed his skin as he crosses whatever border surrounds this place.

A gentle hand is placed upon Michael’s shoulder, to which he looks back and sees Elsa, still with that gentle and assuring smile.

Kristoff brings the wagon to a dead stop, hopping out without a word, as do the sisters. He unlatches Sven from the wagon, leaving the reindeer to huff with glee as he bolts for the end of the valley. Michael opts to stay by the wagon.

It’s a dead end, looking more like a forgotten amphitheater with what looks like a set of four stairs leading up to a second level filled with random, uneven moss seating. More moss covers the surface of the flattened stones, more deadwood trees border the place like skeletal sentries.

And lots and lots and lots of rocks.

Much of those rocks are now scattered throughout the main central area.

Were it not for the open valley now behind them, this would’ve felt more like a prison than any kind of home.

“Well,” Kristoff cheers with a clap of his hands. “We’re here. This is my family!”

Michael dares all of two steps away from the wagon. “ _This_ is it?”

Kristoff is standing at the center of the stone circle, the sisters approaching and waving at the inanimate rocks. Olaf and Sven are beside themselves with glee, hugging and waving to each and every rounded stone.

The sisters turn to him, Elsa heading back towards him without missing a beat. She holds out her hands to him. Michael takes them without hesitation.

But when she tries to tug him into the ring, he digs his heels into the ground.

“Michael, it’s okay.”

Not even the Queen of Arendelle’s words feel all that comforting.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Again, without hesitation.

She steps close, lacing their fingers together as she looks up to him. “Then come closer.”

Is that a purr in her voice?

Wicked, beautiful thing.

Olaf’s voice at his left nearly startles him. “Trust me, when Anna and I first came here, I thought the same thing. But it really ended up being a lovely visit!”

When Elsa’s eyes settle upon him again, Michael relinquishes as she tugs him over. But not without a disapproving sigh.

Kristoff has since taken to talking to the rocks, little bits of conversation with each, “You are a sight for sore eyes!” “Clay, whoa . . . I don’t even recognize you. You’ve lost so much weight!”

Elsa, who still hasn’t let go of his hands, tugs him a couple of feet away from where Kristoff stands, Anna walking up to his side, still smiling and laughing at the stones. “Elsa, what do I do?”

“I’ve learned to just roll with it.”

Suddenly a low rumbling has Michael clamping his mouth shut. Its sounds similar to thunder, but heavier. Michael near yanks Elsa behind him, his hand drifting towards his dagger. He looks around, thinking there’s some kind of avalanche, but –

His skin grows cold as he realizes the stones are suddenly shaking. Rocking back and forth ever so slightly.

Then a few stones begin to roll down the hill towards Kristoff, each impact sounding as heavy as, well, boulders. Michael has to lift up his left foot, then his right foot as two stones nearly roll over each.

Once a huge mass of them have converged to the center, Michael finds his mouth gaping as the rocks shift – the thinnest flash of light – and suddenly the rocks open up to reveal creatures of stone with large, sharply pointed ears and equally large round noses. They’re no taller than a small child. Tuffs of dried grass stick out from the top of their heads, some of them having dead dandelions in groups of two or three.

The moss has morphed into their clothing, looking like small green shifts; some having equally small capes clasped to their shoulders. Around their necks are beads of crystals twined in what has to be dried twigs or vines. The crystals vary in shades of red and blue, the colors near matching the Northern Lights.

Cutting through the confusion, as loud as a crack of lighting, one of the creatures yells, “Kristoff’s home!”

Then the central area becomes a mosh of thrilled little, creatures, jumping and cheering and laughing and smiling.

From across the way, another one yells, “Anna and Elsa are here!”

Olaf’s jubilant laughter flits across the space.

One of the creatures approaches Kristoff, the voice sounding female with crystals of fuchsia pink, and takes Kristoff’s hand. Being made of stone, her weight yanks Kristoff to one knee. “Aw, let me look at you! We’ve missed you!”

As Anna steps to his side, another one – a different female voice, and one with crystals of sunset orange – rolls up to the princess and yanks her down for a hug.

“It’s Elsa! She’s here too!” calls a male one, Michael managing to pinpoint him, marking the stones of teal green and the lack of dead weeds.

The color of the crystals must help separate gender, as well as the dead dandelions.

To his dismay, Elsa pulls him along as these things form a path for her to the young couple. Each of them bows to her, dips of their chins and their smiles wide. A chip of joy for Anna. A smile at Elsa.

He doesn’t know how it clicked in his mind, but when he sees one of the little things walk up and shows Kristoff that she earned a fire crystal, the name came to him.

Trolls.

“They’re trolls.” Michael mumbles.

None of the creatures seem to notice him yet, and if it weren’t for Kristoff’s vague forewarning, Michael would’ve settled for waiting in the wagon. But gods damn Kristoff, he’s backed Michael up into a corner.

True he’s seen more kinds of magic than Kristoff could claim, but his encounter with creatures such as these were rare. The war in his kingdom was about the craft itself, not about the many denizens that fell under its category. Faeries: gnomes, sprites, nymphs, goblins, more names than anyone could count or remember.

Each of the trolls, it seems, feels the need to catch the trio up on their lives since their last visit: “Look! I grew a mushroom!” one says. “We wish you visited us more often!” adds another. “I passed a kidney stone.”

On and on they went, until one of them look over Elsa’s shoulder—to where he stands.

“What is that?” the female troll asks.

Michael merely stares at her, one hand clamping the handle of his dagger strapped at his waist. All eyes turn to him, the trolls blinking in union. One of them makes some sign against evil.

“That,” Kristoff says a bit too nervously, “is our new friend.”

“Is he a witch?”

Elsa opens her mouth, but Michael said flatly, “No.”

And the trio watch as these seemingly adult, weathered, possibly immortal trolls flinch.

“He may act like one sometimes,” Anna chirps, looking to deflate the situation. “but no — he’s just, human.”

“She is no more human than we are,” another troll counters.

A pause that went on for too long. Even Kristoff seems at a loss for words.

Anna makes another attempt to soothe the palpable tension. “Um, Michael this is Bulda and Cliff, they’re essentially Kristoff’s parents.”

Michael bristles when he hears a male troll mutter, “Keep him away from the children.”

“Look guys, he’s kind of the reason we’re here. Is Grand Pabbie here?” Kristoff asks.

In answer, there’s a softer sound of rolling stone, and the trolls clear another path as a lone rock rolls its way towards them. Elsa goes and takes Michael’s hand, bringing him closer to the group.

The rock blooms like the others, revealing a significantly older looking troll. The grass sprouting from his head travels around his neck, like a makeshift collar and into his distinctly thicker eyebrows. It covers his whole head compared to the sprouts atop the other trolls’ heads.

An elder troll, of sorts. If the multiple strings of crystals and the long cape are any indication. Like the rest of the trolls, his eyes almost appear onyx, contrasting with the white.

“What sort of enigma have you brought us, Kristoff?” The elder troll asks. His voice is low and husky; the kid of voice heard from a grandfather, or even an elder scholar. A voice that has aged gracefully with time, never losing that touch of gentleness and calm.

“We came looking for answers.” Elsa chimes.

“I could sense why you’re here.” Pabbie says.

Elsa takes Michael’s hand and he steps closer to her side. 

Pabbie’s eyes flick to him. “And who might you be?”

After a quick glance at Elsa, Michael clears his throat. “My name is Michael. Michael Tuller. Elsa and Anna hired me to help solve this, mystery.”

The elder troll hums. “Yes. But we both know that this now goes far beyond just a simple assassination.”

Michael squares his shoulders. “It would appear so. It’s nice to meet you, by the way.”

When Grand Pabbie simply stares at him, Michael steels his spine and holds it.

“Michael,” Elsa says, her voice hush, “show them what you found.”

He looks to her, then to the trolls. He sighs, digging through his satchel. He lowers to one knee, trying his best to ignore the way the trolls seem to take a unified step back. All but Pabbie, at least. “I found these, runes, at a sight of a murder. And recently when there was a demon attack in the town’s square. We were hoping you might have some answers. If you might recognize these.”

Michael fishes out the papers and hands them to the trolls.

For some stupid reason, Michael finds himself adding, “I tried to copy them as best I could. I tried writing and rewriting some of them.”

Pabbie looks at them for a considerable minute. Enough that Michael rises back to his feet. Elsa steps up to his side, even looping her arm around his. Pabbie shuffles through the papers, giving them each a fair glance and not just skimming through them. His brows narrow, then lift, then narrow again.

After a minute and a half, Pabbie gives a defeated sigh. “I’m sorry. But I’m afraid I do not recognize these runes. These are from a strange, sort of magic.”

That can’t be good.

“A magic _you_ don’t even recognize?” Kristoff voices.

“It is not something of our culture, Kristoff. That’s all it is.” As the group’s shoulders sag, Michael’s included, Pabbie carefully adds, “But I can answer some other questions you might have.”

The group look to the elder troll, as he turns and looks skyward. With a wave of his hands, smaller, rippling silhouettes of the Northern Lights appear. In it, Michael can see the outline of the woman he saw at the temple. Unmistakable for him, and apparently Elsa as she seems to have paled.

“These events extend far past the simplicities of a corrupt court. There is a great evil that threatens the very foundation of your kingdom. Yet, it is not the throne that she seeks.”

“She?” Elsa mumbles. Her grip on his arm tightens.

“Who is _she_?” Michael asks.

Pabbie closes his eyes, the color and forms of the lights shifting. “I . . . I cannot see.” The troll stammers.

“Pabbie?” Kristoff says, hitches.

“She won’t _let_ me see.”

“Be careful,” Michael warns the troll. Though he may not know the full extent of this woman’s magic, he knows enough that it’s a danger to let her into your mind.

“She is . . . human . . . but, tainted. A woman whose mortal skin she shed. I can hear her – crying. Everyone thinks she’s dead.” Pabbie keeps his eyes closed. “But she’s not. Only — different. Changed.”

The lights form her silhouette again, this time adding on the rippling of her dark hair. Though the lights shift from blue to pink to purple to green, Michael can still piece every aspect of her together. They shift again, only this time, it is a being of shadows, claws, and a darkness to devour souls.

Elsa grips his hand, and even when he sends a thin tether of his magic to hers, he still shivers in fear. Her grip tightens, indicating she felt it too.

“Her power does not come from anything, but it is of its own creation. It bows to her. It is cold and wild, like madness in her heart.”

“What does she want?” Michael dares to ask, ignoring the look Kristoff cuts in his direction.

“She seeks to destroy a power that rivals her own. A power that is even _older_ than her own. Lost for centuries, until now. Slumbering deep.”

A rippling of light has the silhouette gone, in its place . . . just a spreading of indistinct bird wings. Wide and grand and beautiful.

“What does this have to do with us, with Arendelle?” Anna asks.

Suddenly Pabbie yells and grunts, the sound making everyone flinch. The lights vanish in a flash and Kristoff and a couple of trolls rush to Pabbie’s side as the troll nearly collapses.

“Pabbie! Pabbie, please!” Kristoff pleads, his eyes quickly filling with tears.

The elder troll grunts stiffly, blinking his eyes a few times to get them to focus. He manages to get to his feet with a troubled sigh. “Gods above.” He whispers.

“Pabbie, what happened?” Kristoff asks, his voice still trembling.

“I . . . I’m trying to make sense of it. I was trying to see what I can see, but then – this living, angry darkness – it lashed out at me.” The troll places his hand over where his heart would be. “She didn’t _want_ me to see.”

“You mean, she could sense you?” Elsa asks with deathly quiet.

“In whatever way she can, she did. You four must be very careful. You are dealing with something that is far outside even my realm of understanding. Stay cautious. Stay alert.”

“Of course, Pabbie.” Anna assures, kneeling down to take the trolls porous hands. “Thank you for your time.”

The elder troll places his hands over hers, enveloping them as he gives her a gentle smile and a quick nod. Elsa walks over and takes his hands too, silently giving her thanks. The two sisters head for the wagon while Kristoff gives more individual goodbyes. Feeling he’s caused enough trouble, Michael decides to take a couple steps back towards the direction of the carriage, until –

“Michael,” Pabbie suddenly calls. He turns towards the troll and as he motions Michael to come closer, he kneels once more. The sisters pause, but Elsa pulls Anna further towards the wagon.

Before the elder troll says anything, Michael suddenly says, “I’m sorry for putting you in trouble.”

Pabbie only gives a strained but genuine smile. He takes Michael’s hands and the rogue doesn’t pull back.

“Michael, I am worried for you.” The rouge’s smile tightens. “Magic can be very alluring. You _must_ be careful not to lose yourself to it.”

A moment of contemplation before Michael says, “Were you able to see anything, about my magic?”

An unsure shake of the troll’s head. “I saw young hands withered with age. I saw a coffin of black stone. I saw a feather of fire landing on snow and melting it. A bird of burning feathers.” A pat on his hands for assurance. “I will try to look deeper. See what else I can find.”

“You don’t have to do that. If she can sense you trying to look at her, I don’t want you in any more danger. Especially because you’re Kristoff’s family.”

“I must see,” Pabbie insists. “You’re involved in this much more than you think, Michael.”

“What –?”

“Before I was interrupted, I saw you Michael, in my vision.”

Michael’s stomach tightens. “Me? But – why? I’m just a guard for Elsa and Anna. They’re the important ones.”

“I could only glimpse so much. Even what I just told you required some forceful prying.” Pabbie shifts to grip Michael’s forearms. Not forceful, but sternly. “You have a bigger part in this game than you realize, Michael. A much more important role than simply protecting the queen.”

Footsteps approach and Pabbie finalize their conversation as Elsa lays a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “We should be heading back before it gets too dark.”

Michael nods, sparing a quick smile towards Pabbie. As he rises, Michael pauses as something shifts in the air. He casually reaches for his dagger and when he hears the whistling –

Elsa beats him to it as a blast of ice hits the arrow, knocking it off course from its intended target of his head.

“Take cover!” Michael hollers.

The trolls scream and scatter, tucking and rolling out of the way as Michael sprints for the sisters. Kristoff hurries Anna into the wagon. The latter throwing Olaf in the back while the former buckles Sven in place with quick and deft hands. He’s so occupied that he flinches as Michael jumps at his back whacking away another arrow aimed for the Ice Master’s back.

Palming a single knife, Michael chucks it into the direction he saw the arrow originate. The dagger is a streak of silver as it embeds into the rock, but Michael catches shadow movement. Counting his seconds, he hurries to the back of the wagon and fishes out his bow and sheath of twelve arrows.

As he slings the quiver at his back, knocking one arrow and readying to others between his fingers, he peers up as a wraith-like figure lands square in front of him.

By the look of her shape, he can tell it’s a female, but –

More of like what’s left of a woman . . .

Skeletal in appearance, most of the skin has rotted away, leaving only draping tissue and hardened tendons to hold the limbs and dented pieces of armor together. Her head and helmet are uneven, looking like she’d been cleaved in the head by an axe upon her death. Soulless black eyes are at him from the shadows of the helmet’s nose guard, her midriff being nothing more than her spine connecting to her bottom half.

When she opens her mouth, a guttural moan escapes her throat, her lips having shriveled to reveal yellowy-brown teeth.

But over all of that, she reeks of death and decay.

 _Holy burning hell_.

“Go. _GO_!” Michael bellows.

Kristoff snaps the reins and Sven bolts forward. Both the sisters are in, Michael sprinting after it when he finishes firing his three arrows. As he hurries after the wagon, he sees Elsa stand up and open her palms. He has only a quick nod and a few seconds to leap to the right to avoid the blasts of ice that stream past his head. Michael can feel the bite of the cold as they hit the ground, sense the ice cracking and stretching into sharp points.

“Michael!” Anna cries.

“Just keep going!”

Michael manages to shoot another arrow, easily finding its mark in the creature’s chest, but she doesn’t go down. It slows her, but not enough.

As he closes in on the wagon that he calls, “What is that thing?”

“Draugr!” Kristoff shouts from the front.

“Draugr?!”

“Yeah!” Olaf suddenly chimes as he pops up from behind Elsa. “They’re undead warriors in Old Norse mythology. Usually if a person isn’t properly laid to rest, or if they were unwelcomed in the afterlife –”

“Olaf, please, not now!” Elsa barks as she shoves the snowman down.

The ground races by beneath Michael’s pounding feet, the morphing seasonal air stinging his lungs. As he runs, he can feel his body enter that uncomfortable place of being warm on the inside but cold with sweat on the outside. He knew he'd pay later for not having warmed up or anything before launching straight into a full sprint.

A piercing scream comes from behind him. It’s getting closer.

His nerves prickle. Along his neck and arms, all hairs rise to stand on end.

Elsa takes another few shots, Michael heaving sighs of relief as the cold brushes against his headed skin.

“What do we do?” Anna shouts.

“Just keep going! I’ll think of something.”

As he finishes his words, Elsa gives a heavy grunt as she shoots a large – and very sharp – icicle straight towards the draugr. Michael risks looking back and finds her shot reigns true.

The icicle has embedded itself into the draugr’s head. After a few staggering steps, it collapses onto the forest floor.

In the few seconds of silence, Michael chuckles, his breath sharp. “Or yeah, that’ll work.”

The group share a collective laugh as Kristoff slows the wagon for Michael to hop in. He begins to slow his run, and just when listening to the eerie nothing might be worse than actually hearing something, a hushed sound – a fast _whoosh_ – breaks through from the line of trees at his right.

Michael jerks his head, an ice pick of fear stabbing him through the middle so that, for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. He has one hand on the wagon.

Whatever it is had been big. As big as a person.

More sounds of twigs cracking.

 _Skoooosh_!

Michael whirls as the sisters huddle against each other, tears beginning to stream down Anna’s cheeks. This sound had come from the trees directly across the trail.

It comes again from behind.

Thunder rolls above him. He hears the pop of a branch and the crush of dry leaves. He spins in a circle, and despite the cascade of sudden nose, the rustling and crackling, he can’t sense so much as the slightest movement in any direction.

Michael feels his throat constrict and his chest tighten. His heartbeat speeds to triple time. Without warning, Michael slaps his hand on Sven’s hind, hard enough to startle the reindeer into full out sprint.

Michael breaks once more into a run, following after the wagon as hard and as fast as his legs could carry him. His palms, cold and sweaty, tighten into fists.

Whatever it is in the woods, it follows him. Out of the corner of one eye, he thinks he saw the edge of a dark something.

Then there’s another to his left.

Figures, tall and long, rush through the black gate of trees on either side of him. Their movements too fast. _Impossibly_ fast.

As he speeds up, so did the dappled forms.

They seem to multiply as, out of his periphery, he spots yet another. The one glides away from the others to rush along the group of trees directly beside him. It moves _through_ the trees, through undergrowth, dashing over the dry ground – a rippling form.

Michael risks a quick glance, head-on, but sees nothing, only blackness and tangled branches and the wagon holding the wide-eyed, fearful sisters.

 _But that’s impossible_!

Michael readies another arrow, despite how futile it seems. How useless the weapon feels.

He can’t outrun them, whatever or whoever they were. He can’t gain even the slightest bit of distance, and already a stitch the size of a small ball has begun to knot itself in his side. He blocked out the pain, pushing through the pain.

Run.

Run.

 _Run_!

"Run!" he hears someone hiss. A man.

It comes from the line of trees beside him.

Michael chokes out a low sob as he sees a pair of pale, glowing blue eyes. He can’t keep going like this. He can’t breathe anymore. His lungs sting from the cold while his sides ache with stiffening pain.

But one look at the raw fear in Elsa’s eyes, either for him or for her family, has Michael gritting his teeth and shooting an arrow in a random direction.

Anything to gain a little leverage.

He wills his body to keep moving in spite of his screaming muscles, the torturous ache in his lungs.

" _Michael_."

The sound of his name whisks by him, caught by the wind and then lost in the rush of leaves scattering around his feet. He heard it, though. His name.

Someone had whispered his name.

That, at last, stops him and brings him stuttering to a halt. The wagon keeps going, despite Elsa’s cries of protest.

Good. They need to get to the kingdom; they’ll be safer there.

He wheels around, eyes scanning. He gasped for breath, sucking air in huge gulps. He chucks the bow aside and pulls his duel swords, cleverly hidden among his leather suit.

The stench hits him first.

Finally, they emerge.

At least thirteen of those draugr stagger from between the trees, each bearing a different kind of weapon, ones he’s seen, others he can’t recognize due to their state of rusted decay. He doesn’t imagine the weapons being able to hold, but with these undead, he can’t be so sure.

Each seem frozen in a different state of decay, their jaws distended, tendons barely holding onto skin and darkened bone; their armor clinking and clanking some bearing helmets, some not, leaving their liver-spotted skulls exposed. Their eyes nothing more than deep, endless wells of ink.

He doesn’t have to fight for long. Just long enough.

Thirteen against one. He’s faced worse odds, and his opponents had been built to take lives. But they aren’t trained killers like he is.

Michael calms his breathing. He steadies himself as he readies his swords.

Their metal armor and heavy steps offer some advantage, because when the first male draugr bearing an axe lunges, Michael easily blocks it, able to sense the second one from behind.

Slowly he can feel them press on him, but he holds his own, buying whatever time he can for that wagon to make it back to Arendelle.

Strike, move, block—over and over.

The sounds of the wagon are gone, but Michael refuses to relent.

There are many questions running through his head as to how these beings walk again, but that’ll have to wait.

For now, he’ll make sure they’ll never want to rise again.


	34. Chapter 34

“We’re not leaving him!” Elsa seethes as she claws at Kristoff’s shoulder.

“He’d want us to get back to the kingdom!” he argues.

Elsa near yowls in aggravation, near climbing to the front of the wagon were it not for Anna holding her back. Elsa thrashes against her sister, but she’s always been surprisingly strong, and she yanks her back.

“Elsa! Stop!” Anna says grabbing her wrists. “Michael will be fine.”

“Against the draugr?! We have to help him!”

“He’s giving a chance to escape, that’s the whole reason why we he’s here! To protect us.”

The words still her for a moment, both seeing and seeing past her sister. But it’s hold breaks faster than a thread of yarn.

“I’m _not_ leaving him.” Elsa states.

Before her sister gets the chance to argue, before she can lunge for Elsa, the queen opens her palms and shoots a thin streak of her magic. An icy cuff that pins Anna to the back of the driver’s seat.

With a steadying breath and a quick burst of cushioning snow, Elsa leaps from the wagon and sprints back towards the chaos.

Back towards Michael.

She ignores the screams of her sister, pumping her arms as she tries to follow the sound of clanging metal.

Lightning flashes above her, thunder rolling in its wake.

She hadn’t realized just how far they rode until she’s near gasping for breath by the time she hears the sounds of a scuffle. She ducks behind a thick oak trunk and carefully peers around.

There’s thirteen total of these ugly things. It would seem he’s done his diligence as some of them have lost arms and legs.

Of the thirteen, Michael seems to have decapitated four, still that leaves nine that surround him like vultures.

She has a heartbeat to decide: send a blast of ice that would knock the draugr off their feet, or use herself as a distraction.

Michael move before she can pick. He charges at a male-looking one with a bald head and long beard.

The draugr braces his feet apart.

Michael feints left, then bolts right. Right through a wide gap between the trees, his swords slicking at the ankles of two other draugr that sends them toppling like cards.

Seven left.

He makes it twenty feet into the oak and birch trees before a fourth is after him.

Elsa sprinted after them and halts dead in her tracks as one of the creatures launches itself upon Michael.

But he does not go down.

He fights like a black whirlwind, his weapons gleaming extensions of his arms.

Fast. So damn _fast_ she can barely track him. Even on the defensive . . . Michael holds his own.

Where the draugr would have knocked his feet from under him, Michael nimbly dodges the blow. Where the draugr would have slammed its fist into Michael’s face, the punch is blocked. Strike, move, swipe — over and over.

Elsa has no words for it.

She’d never seen anyone fight like that. Especially in a ring of multiple opponents.

Still, something about the way the creatures fight in a unified position has her stomach turning. She had expected them to be – flimsy, mindless. Yet they attack with strength that no dead corpse should have, move with an awareness that should’ve been rotted away hundreds of years ago, judging from the style of their armor.

When a draugr lands a brutal blow to the ribs, Michael takes it. Doesn’t stumble. Keeps moving. And the punches that Michael throws are deadly. Whatever training he had gone through, they covered every style, every motion. From the ease with which he bends and moves, to the stark and brutal punches that can shatter jaws and teeth.

He fights so beautifully, like blade made flesh.

One draugr swings his sword, a strike that would cleave his skull in two.

The fool doesn’t realize who he faces. What he faces.

With a twist, arms lifting, Michael meets that sword head-on.

Just as he planned.

The draugr’s sword falls short of its intended target, but hits precisely where Michael wished.

Buying him enough time to ram his other sword clean through the creature’s chest.

But as it sags onto the blade, there’s a sickening pop of bone and the draugr suddenly jerks its head forward, ramming into Michael’s nose. He tumbles back, the creature pulling the sword from its chest.

With one sword still in hand, Michael slices at another one’s ankle as it approaches from behind, driving his fist up and into its jaw. Elsa covers her mouth in horror as this draugr’s head flies off and tumbles to the forest floor.

Six left.

Michael wastes no time flipping himself to his feet, nearly missing the deadly slash from the draugr now bearing his blade. Snarling, he readies his other one, ignoring the blood dribbling from his nose. Elsa knew he has more weapons expertly hidden among his leathers, but he refuses to reach for them. Just the remaining sword.

The other draugr attempt to close in on him as he squares off with the one. Elsa sees her chance and aims her palm towards the ground. A burst of magic shoots from her hand and spikes of ice sprout and spear through four that were behind him.

She gives a fiendish grin when she pins them to a trio of trees, pierced through their hearts, their foreheads, and their waists.

Her sudden attack has Michael looking back, faltering his block of the two blades the draugr presses down on him. The creature is quick to drive its foot into his gut, sending Michael tumbling back, but he doesn’t lose his second sword.

As Michael rolls with the momentum, planting his feet on the ground before he even finishes rolling, Elsa jabs her other hand out, sending a shot of ice towards the last two horrid creatures.

Fast as a shooting star, the streak of ice pins the two by the neck, similar to the ice cuff Elsa shot at Anna.

Only this time, she pinned the two wretched things by the neck. She willed her magic to make the ice as hard as steel. The other four have already sagged against the trunks, some still writhing to free themselves like tangled flies.

Two arrows whiz past her head and land straight between the eyes of both draugr. Elsa turns back and finds Michael with his bow in hand, slinging it over his back as he goes over to retrieve his sword. He yanks it from the creature’s limp hand and sheathes them both at his back, following his spine.

Elsa runs up to him, cupping her hands around his face before she even realizes what she’s doing. Despite how hard he fought, the draugr did manage to chip away at some of his suit; some cuts, though small, have smeared blood onto his skin, bits of the armor having been slice doff, resulting in a chipped look.

Though he continues to let her do her won inspection, he grumbles, “You were supposed to stay in the carriage.”

“I took it under advisement.” Elsa says with a shrug, giving her own teasing smile. When he doesn’t return it, she steps back and folds her arms. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

There – the corners of his moth turn upwards.

But their victory is short lived as more twigs crack and a haunting moan echoes between the trees.

“Shit.” Michael swears.

Elsa is inclined to agree.

Another rumble of thunder and Elsa’s insides turn to liquid as she sees flashes of many, many eyes prowling closer towards them.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

Suddenly a clear, and live female voice shouts, “Look out!”

Elsa only has a second to blink before Michael’s body envelopes her, but she can still see Sven charging towards them, the wagon in tow. Both Anna and Kristoff bearing snarls on their faces.

“Now Sven!” Kristoff barks.

The reindeer skids to a stop, planting his hind legs on the ground, sliding along the dirt as he hauls himself to turn around.

The wagon quickly follows. It whips around Elsa and Michael, spewing dirt and twigs on their ankles, but Elsa laughs near feverishly as she hears the wood collide with the other draugr. They go flying and slam into the trees, denting the trunks and snapping low hanging branches.

“Get in!” Anna roars.

Despite everything she just did, Michael still helps her in first before hopping in himself. Kristoff snaps the reins and the wagon lurches forward. Elsa tumbles back into Michael, who wraps a protective arm around her. Looking up to him, he gives an assuring smile – the motion making one of the cuts on his cheeks pinch out a drop of blood.

“What do we do?” Anna asks as she presses herself down into the corner of the wagon.

“They’re still killable.” Michael states, pulling his bow forward. “An arrow to the head, or just cutting off their head overall seems to work.”

“There’s so many of them,” Elsa says, daring a glance over the side of the wagon to see more beady-blue eyes staring at them from the growing darkness.

It would seem night has been brought upon them early tonight, as the impending storm clouds have darkened the sky. All too soon, drops begin to fall upon them.

“How can we kill them if we’re running?” Anna asks.

“I’ll do what I can, but we’re going to have to take a different path?”

“What?!” the princess exclaims.

“You want to lead these things to Arendelle? To your people?” Michael snipes.

He loads an arrow into the bow before rising to one knee and aiming. A quick twang of the bow and the arrow flies. Elsa follows it as best she can, seeing a female draugr drop like a stone. Michael drops back down behind cover as he loads another arrow.

As she’s about to lift up to a kneel, Michael’s hand shoves her back down. another twang of his bow and another draugr falls to the dirt.

This time, Michael doesn’t duck down. Instead he draws another arrow and fires without stopping.

One after another, Michael withdraws an arrow and fired.

Again, and again, and again.

Again, and again, and again.

Again, and again, and again.

Each shot is lethally accurate, even with wind and rain. Each arrow finds their home in the head, neck, and heart.

And when he finishes, their horrid sounds of hissing and guttural growls are halved. Though some still follow, seeing the significant drop in numbers has Elsa’s chest near caving with relief.

There’s still enough that Michael doesn’t relax, but when he reaches back, he swears colorfully when he realizes his quiver is empty.

Elsa seizes her chance and comes up on one knee. With a wide wave of her hand, an arc of turquoise light streaks across the makeshift road, erupting into a wall of spikes. It seems to slow the draugr, their forms quickly disappearing behind the spikes.

As Elsa slips down next to Michael, she looks and finds his brows narrowed in disproval. But before she says anything his expression changes in an instant, his brows lifting and a genuine proud smile spreads across his handsome face. The three of them share a chuckle of relief, Olaf leaping into Elsa’s lap as Anna pulls her way towards Kristoff.

“We lost them!” Anna calls. Kristoff gives a whoop of victory in answer.

“We may have stalled them, but we can’t leave them like that.” Michael says, hating to be a bearer of bad news.

“What?”

“They’re going to find a way around it, and then they may make their way to Arendelle. They’ll follow our tracks.”

“What do we do?” Elsa asks as she sidles closer to him.

The expression Michael gives says enough that knows exactly what to do, but doesn’t want to. Elsa can sense what he’s thinking, but before she can get the chance to comfort him, tell him he doesn’t have to –

The wagon hits a heavy bump, hard enough that the all five of them are lifted out of their seats.

“What was that?” Anna asks with fear lacing her tone.

Michael stands and looks over to the driver’s seat. The rain is beginning to come down harder, making visibility more difficult. Michael has to squint to peer at the road ahead. Elsa watches as his hands grip the back of Kristoff’s seat.

Elsa attempts to get up, his name a murmur on her lips, when –

“ _Look out_!” Michael roars.

One second Michael lunging for her with a wolf’s speed. The next second, Elsa’s eyes flick to the road in time to see a lone draugr standing in the middle of the road, a lantern in one hand, and a dirtied jar of, something in the other.

The third second, Michael wraps his body around her as Kristoff suddenly yanks on the reins, forcing Sven to plant his hind legs to the ground like before.

Just the same, the wagon is forced to spin, the world blurring even as Michael’s arms wrap around her shoulders.

She feels them collide with the draugr, then –

Heat.

Blazing, singeing, relentless heat licks its fiery tongue up her back, up her legs.

Anna’s screaming. Or maybe she’s screaming as the wagon flips.

Wood splinters, cracking like a whip against her hollowed-out ears.

Ringing. Shrill and deafening ringing fills her ears.

The world is thrusted into a kaleidoscope of red and black and white and gold.

Rippling gold light. Elsa can’t move her hands; out of fear, or shock, or . . . something.

Yet Michael’s arms never release her. He never lets his body unravel one centimeter.

Her head slams into his chest as they hit the dirt of the road. Michael bites back his cries of pain with grit teeth, clenched so tight they sound like they might shatter.

Elsa doesn’t dare open her eyes.

Her heart sinks and her stomach churns as she hears a sickening pop and crack from beneath his armor.

That she heard clear as day with her ear pressed into his chest.

Together they tumble and roll and bounce as the cracking of flames on wood blooms around them. Blooms with the black smoke that immediately floods her senses, ripping a cough from her throat.

Whatever that draugr had, likely some kind of blasting jelly, it’s destroyed Kristoff’s wagon.

Oh gods, Anna. Kristoff. Sven.

She and Michael are still skipping like a stone on water until finally they begin to slide along the ground, Elsa near whimpering as she hears the hissing of charred wood.

Elsa jerks again as they finally crash into something hard.

Michael’s limbs finally loosen.

Elsa flutters her eyes open and looks up to find Michael’s jawline, his head limp.

Scrambling to her feet, Elsa wriggles herself from him to take in her surroundings.

Indeed the wagon has been blown to bits. Olaf’s body has been scattered, but the little snowman is already inching his way towards his feet, his carrot nose shoved into his head, poking out the back.

Rain splatters onto her cheeks, tickling the flames as the wagon begins to be consumed by the fire.

Elsa frantically looks around for her sister and Kristoff and Sven.

Oh gods, they could’ve been blown yards away from the explosion –

Sven had been the closest, what if –!

There! Further into the trees to the right, she can see Sven’s outline. He doesn’t look nearly as bad as she had assumed. She wants to run to him, but Michael –

The rogue grunts behind her as if in answer.

Elsa whirls to him, dropping to her raw knees. The explosion tore holes in her pants, making the bite of the scorched forest floor more unbearable. Slowly her body begins to tally all the injuries she’s gathered: her scraped hands, the faint burning on the back of her neck, her lower back. The pain in her left leg slices like a knife.

That agony is secondary. All of it secondary to her friends.

Michael is semiconscious, his eyes struggling to open.

A pained whimper bursts from Elsa’s lips.

Gods, he’s bleeding some so many places his armor is soaked with it. His face smeared from the smoke and soot.

He . . . he had taken the brunt of the impact. Had taken the shredding of the dirt, the rocks, the thorns.

His shredded skin, the fractured pelvis – all because of that.

To protect her.

Thunder rumbles in answer.

The thought cleaves Elsa’s heart.

She places a hand on his shoulder, torn between sitting him up or letting him lay on his side. She prays to whatever gods that his healing magic is already at work – but can it heal something as deep as a broken bone?

Muffled footsteps can be heard not that far away.

“Michael,” Elsa whimpers, tears running her face as the reality sets in. “Michael, get up. Please.”

It is selfish of her. It feels like the most selfish thing she’s ever done to ask him to get up, after everything he’s done. But –

She’s scared. As scared as she was when she was a little girl, barely able to control her magic.

Another shake of his shoulder and Elsa sobs, “Michael, please.”

His eyes tighten and his chest rises tall before they officially open. Weary at first, but then they snap to attention as they widen, and he bolts uprights.

Only to near yelp in pain, his hand going to his side.

“Michael,” Elsa sobs, a breathy laugh of relief.

“Elsa,” He grunts, his voice sounding like sandpaper. Awareness starting to wash across his face, Michael props himself up on one arm, the other reaching out.

Elsa rests her cheek against his palm without thinking. The relief that shines in his eyes at her being alive nearly caves her chest in.

“Where are the others?” he asks as he tries to stand. Gods, the pain of trying to even kneel must be unbearable.

Elsa tries to help him up. “I think I saw Sven, but I – I didn’t look for Anna or Kristoff.”

“Guys!” Olaf suddenly calls, all pieced together and whole. “I found them! They’re over here!”

He points to a spot to the left, his twig arms waving frantically. Elsa looks to Michael who only nods, “Go,”

Still Elsa waits until he’s standing, propping his back against the trunk of the tree before she turns and runs over to where Anna and Kristoff are.

Her breathing becomes fast as Olaf waddles over to the two unmoving bodies. Tears still wiping paths down her cheeks, Elsa approaches with slow, wooden steps.

It looks as though Kristoff tried to shield Anna like Michael did her.

To her surprise, apart from the skid marks and the smears of soot, they look relatively unharmed.

But, how –

Kristoff groans as he moves, Olaf placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Kristoff.” Elsa whispers. She runs and drops to his side, her hands hovering over the torn fragments of his tunic.

As he pushes himself up on is elbows, he coughs at the sudden attack of the smoke. Elsa does her best to smack his back, thick with muscle it hurts her hand more. Kristoff waves her hand away, near smacking it as he points behind her.

“Anna,” he croaks.

Whirling around, Elsa crawls towards her sister, laying on her side. But before she makes it to her, a sudden burst of anger at the heat has Elsa pushing to her feet.

Fisting her raw hands, Elsa stomps her foot down, releasing a wave of her ice magic. Thrusting her hands forward, they guide the ice towards her sister, blooming around her in a wide radius, snuffing out much of the flames and smoke like someone blew out a candle.

With the air feeling cleaner, Elsa hurries and kneels before her sister. Rolling her over, Elsa sobs with relief at the sight of her sister’s smeared, but unharmed face.

“Anna,” she whispers. “Anna.”

Her sister’s eyes open upon her second shake. She coughs and Elsa attempts to sit her up as Anna’s body wolfs down the fresher air. “Elsa,” she coughs, and wastes no time wrapping her arms around Elsa. “Oh, thank goodness,” Anna whimpers. “What happened? Is everyone –?”

“Everyone seems fine.” Elsa tells her, helping her sister get to her feet.

“Sven!” Kristoff cries, the sisters looking as he rushes towards the moving reindeer.

Like the others, he is mostly unharmed, safe for a few singes of fur that don’t seem worse than a flesh wound. The reindeer gets to his feet, if a bit wobbly. Kristoff offers coos of comfort and reassurance as he lets Sven brace himself against his side.

“That was . . .” Anna starts, unable to finish.

“How are we alive?” Kristoff sighs, bracing a hand on his stomach.

“I don’t know.” Elsa mumbles. “But –”

“Elsa!” Michael calls. They all turn and see him limping towards them, using his remaining sword like a cane. “Is everyone okay?”

Gods, how is he even able to walk with that fractured pelvis?

Elsa nods. “We’re okay.”

“Oh gods, Michael. You look terrible.” Anna says as she takes a couple of steps towards him, extending out a hand.

Michael waves her off. “I’ve heard worse. But you’re all okay?”

Everyone nods, and the relief that floods his eyes is near heartbreaking.

“Can we please go home now? I know, I am not one to complain about much,” Olaf starts as he plucks a thorn from his hip, “but this putting us in mortal danger is –”

An arrow suddenly lodges itself through Olaf’s head.

“– is giving me a headache.”

Cries and yelps stir from the group.

Looking to the left there are eight more draugr, half of them armed with bows.

One of them hisses, revealing a toothless mouth and a blackened tongue.

“How is this possible?” Anna says, huddling into herself.

As the one draugr goes to throw a chipped but still wicked axe, a dagger suddenly lands right between its eyes. It drops like a stone.

Elsa doesn’t have time to look at Michael as he grabs the back of her throat and shoves her forward.

“We need to run!” he orders, and they all follow like foot soldiers.

Michael whips his arm up, unleashing a crest of thinner daggers flying in streams of silver. Elsa pauses to shoot a blast of her magic, but Michael grips her wrist.

“Don’t even try to argue,” he hisses, shoving Elsa ahead of him.

The queen swears. But she obeys and keeps pace with the rest of the group. Elsa is at least able to direct a blast right at the wagon, extinguishing the flames.

The rain is becoming heavier, slowly turning into driving sheets. With every flash of lightning, Elsa thinks she sees the shadow form of a draugr right next to them. Her heart is beginning to race, the fear starting to lighten her head.

“Where can we go?” Anna asks.

“Maybe we can find that temple again!” Kristoff calls.

“I don’t know if we can make it in time.” Michael denies, throwing another dagger over his shoulder.

The hissing of the draugr is coming closer. The clinking of their armor becoming more distinct. The smell of their rotting bodies almost as suffocating as the smoke.

“I have an idea, but it’s a bit risky.” Michael admits.

“We’ll take it!” Anna declares.

Michael nods, fetching another dagger, this time sending it spinning as fast as a top. It whips around the draugr at first, then coming back and lopping the heads off three. Arrows whizz past their heads, Michael ordering them to start zigzagging, making them uneasy targets.

It’s a challenge to weave through the trees, Elsa fearing of some random one waiting to jump out at her.

“Keep going!” Michael shouts. “Don’t look back!”

They break through the line of trees, Elsa’s heart sinking when she sees Arendelle just over a few hills.

“Michael . . .!” Elsa calls.

He’s ahead of her but skids to a stop motioning her to keep going.

“ _Go_ ,” Michael roars at Elsa, but she opens her palms and readies her hands, bending her knees as—

As an arrow shoots for Elsa from the other side of the forest.

She somehow twists to avoid it, only to find a second arrow from the draugr already there, anticipating her maneuver.

A wall of muscle slams into her, shielding her and shoving her to the grass and moss.

And the arrow goes clean through Michael’s shoulder.

For a moment, the world stops.

Michael slams onto the forest floor, his blood spraying on the aging grass.

Elsa’s scream echoes across the valley.


	35. Chapter 35

Anna has never heard her sister scream like that before.

Even in the final seconds of her frozen heart consuming her body, her mind, she heard her sister’s plea.

A plea of denial. A begging to not take her away.

And tears – of fear and sorrow and regret.

But this . . .

This is so full of fear and pain it ices Anna’s blood.

Michael collapses onto the stone, his blood spraying the grass and stones. A draugr readies to leap atop him, Anna’s own scream near erupting out of her throat, but Michael pulls a dagger from his belt and stabs the draugr in the left eye.

Then he is up again, running and bellowing at them to _go_. Beneath the dark arrow protruding through his shoulder, blood already soaking his tunic, his skin.

Gods, he’s covered in so much blood it looks like he bathed in it.

Elsa sprints past her, her hair a blur of platinum.

She runs as if the denizens of hell are at her heels, right through Michael’s blood. It splashes onto her shins, absorbs into her boots. Unflinching and uncaring, Anna watches in shock as her sister – the picture of sophisticated grace and poise – wraps an arm around Michael and they raced across the grassy expanse, his face paling as the wound gushes blood.

Without hesitation, Elsa presses her hand over Michael’s wound, careful to avoid the arrow. She doesn’t even look at the blood that pools onto other pale hand. That runs down her arm and to her side; a deep line of red cutting through her pale blue tunic and pants.

She never knew, never even thought, that her sister would be capable of such things. She’d heard the story of how she fought the duke's goons at the Ice Palace, and she was so proud of her sister, so amazed to learn how she was able to fight with her magic, even if she claimed she had no control at the time.

And that look . . . the fear in her sister’s eyes – fear and pain and sadness and . . . heartbreak.

The fear and pain at the thought of losing Michael.

The sadness that she can’t see him.

The heartbreak of feelings she doesn’t even think Elsa knew about.

At that moment, Anna knew her sister had changed.

This isn’t a Queen of Arendelle, anymore.

This is a warrior.

A warrior, who has fallen in love.

Anna’s skin crawls with goosebumps as Elsa looks at the oncoming draugr and lets out a low, vicious snarl.

* * *

Her heart—it had been meant for her heart.

And he had taken that arrow for her.

If he had been one inch farther behind, it would have hit his heart. She might have still been screaming, or sobbing—there is such a roaring silence in her. The ground is wet with Michael’s blood, the air heavy with its scent.

An unnerving calm spreads through her like hoarfrost. And all she could think about is how she’ll kill them all. Slowly.

Once they catch up to Anna and Kristoff, she shoves Michael into Kristoff, the Ice Master careful not to get Michael’s blood on his clothes. “Run,” she says.

“No—”

“ _Run_.”

It was a voice that she’s rarely heard herself use — a queen’s voice — that comes out. So stern and filled with order, Michael obeys like he would a commander.

His eyes flash with fury, but his body move as though she compels him. Michael staggers with Kristoff and Anna, just as—

Elsa whirls, yanking her hands up with fanned fingers just an arrow aims for her heart.

It stops between the ice, just like the arrow back at the Ice Palace when she had fought the Duke of Weaseltown’s men. Its tip inches from her eyes.

The air to her left her shifts, and Elsa moves — but not fast enough.

Cloth and flesh tear in her upper arm, and she barks out a cry as the draugr’s blade slices her.

She whirls, imagining the weapon as she brings her hands up for the second blow.

Steel meets ice and cracks.

In her hands she now grips a sword made of ice. Mimicked after Michael’s, Elsa wills her magic into making it as hard as steel. She watches as the cracked ice of the sword’s blade hardens back together.

Michael’s blood is at her feet, smeared across the grassy foothills.

The dragur – a male-looking type with a hole in his helmet – presses against her blade, but Elsa holds her ground and hisses, “I’m going to rip you to shreds.”

She shoves the draugr off, snapping her hand up to deliver a spike of ice into the creature’s head. As it falls, Elsa readies her sword like a javelin and fires. It grazes the shoulder of another one, shattering upon impact of a female draugr’s breastplate.

It’s all the time she needs.

She closes her eyes and lifts her hands up, palms open and facing the charging mob. Plunging into her well of magic, she imagines thick braided threads emerging and shooting towards her hands. She takes a deep breath, ready for the tug at her gut that’ll pull the wind out of her lungs.

Her palms begin to cool, snowflakes dancing in a pulsing turquoise light. Her thoughts race back towards Michael – everything he did to protect her, the blood he’s lost, the injuries he’s endured. How selfless and instantaneous he reacted.

All of it she pools into her thoughts, her power, her hands. Michael’s blood has already crusted atop her skin.

Rage burrows at the center of her magic, Elsa gritting her teeth as she feels it build and build and build.

Around her the air cools, the rain hardening into hail as it falls around her.

She hears a hiss a foot from her face, and then –

Elsa opens her eyes and takes just one step forward, stomping her foot against the ground and thrusting her hands forward.

A scream rips out of her throat – a battlecry of vengeance and anger as a cloud of flakes and ice erupts.

Lightning flashes with it mixes an eruption of arctic light. Like a wave pushed towards land, the tidal of ice floods towards the draugr.

This isn’t a gentle winter’s wind.

This is ice so cold it burns.

Wind howls and wood cracks as her ice blankets everything in her path.

In less than a minute, the wave of ice lowers. Wisps of frost twine and float through the air, the chill quickly dissipating until it mixes with the growing kiss of autumn.

Then silence. Utter silence.

The frost-kissed haze ripples and billows. Until there is only Elsa standing before a crowd of slim pillars of ice.

A gentle wind from the north sweeps down. The veil of mist pulled back, and there they are.

Each and every one of the draugr that were after them, now frozen solid in their coffins of ice. Each frozen in their last stance: one ready to chuck his axe, another having her bow aimed at her heart. The one that was a foot from Elsa was ready to bring his blade down upon her head, his mouth agape in a hateful hiss.

The wind pushes away more of the drifting mist, clearing the land beyond Elsa.

And where that where death had charged towards them, only a frozen forest of ice statues remains.

And there is a lot. Stretching as far as they eye can see.

“Elsa! Come on, we have to go.” Anna calls from behind.

Glancing over her shoulder, she can see Kristoff helping Michael onto Sven. Bless the reindeer, Michael is losing so much blood. But Sven doesn’t even notice it, steadying himself and angling his head back to peer at the injured rogue.

The color looks like it was leeched from his skin –

But just freezing them isn’t enough.

Looking back at the frozen draugr, Elsa holds her hands out again, only this time she curls them into fists.

Hard enough that her knuckles turn white, and she can see feel her nail digging into her palms.

A deep rumbling quivers the earth beneath her feet. A sharper glow emits from her hands.

And when Elsa rips her hands to apart, each and every one of the frozen draugr shatters like glass.

There’s nothing but the quiet pitter-patter of the ice falling to the earth. A thin tendril of black smoke still churns towards the sky; all that remains of Kristoff’s wagon.

“Elsa!” Anna barks.

Elsa turns and runs towards them, the group making their way back to Arendelle.

The trek back to Arendelle is the longest journey of Elsa’s life. So many hills and paths they have to cross, the arrow a gross protrusion on his back. None of them dared to remove it, each of them useless. They didn’t have any combat medical training, none of them even knew what herbs of the forest could help. Before, Elsa was praying that his healing magic would help with some of his injuries, only now it seems like it’s exhausting his strength.

Michael sags heavily against Sven’s back as they hurry through the forest.

Elsa glimpses at the blood soaking Sven’s back — Michael’s blood—and nearly vomits.

She keeps a hand on his shoulder, ignoring how the stain on her hands is already chipping, revealing her porcelain skin beneath. He smells of cinders and sweat and gore. “Michael, please stay awake.”

A horrid question wrenches Elsa’s gut. Anna must be thinking the same, because she asks, “Are we going to make it?”

Elsa looks past Michael sprawled across Sven’s back. Some of Michael’s wounds have clotted, but his eyes are half-closed, his face drained of all color. He can’t even lift his head.

She keeps a hand on his shoulder, ignoring how the crimson of her hands is already chipping away, revealing her porcelain skin beneath. He smells of cinders and sweat and blood. “Michael, please stay awake.”

“We’ll make it.” Kristoff declares. He moves to step in front of Sven, stopping him. “Elsa, hop on. You and Sven head back to the castle as fast as he can carry you. He made the trek once with me and Anna, he can make it again.”

To her surprise, Anna doesn’t argue. Yet, “But Kristoff –”

“We’ll be fine. We’re just slowing you down. He needs to see a healer. _Now_.”

Elsa’s eyes line with tears. She presses her lips into a tight line, whispering, “Thank you.”

Kristoff nods, offering heartbreakingly gentle words to get Michael to lift himself up. Elsa does her best to angle herself, using Sven’s harness as purchase.

She’s extremely aware of her movements as she hoists herself up, throwing her leg over the side of the reindeer and grips the strap across his back. Michael – having roused from half consciousness – loops his arm around her waist, his brutalized body a solid mass at her back.

Elsa locks one hand around the harness, the other holding Michael’s arm around her waist. “To the castle, Sven,” she says, digging her heels into the reindeer’s side. “Faster than the wind.”

Sven obeys. Elsa rocks back into Michael as the reindeer launches into a gallop, earning another groan of pain. But he remains steady, despite the pounding steps that draw agonized breaths from him.

“Faster, Sven!” Elsa calls to the reindeer as she steers him towards the kingdom, the mountain it had been built into.

Nothing has ever seemed so distant.

“Hold on, Michael.” Elsa says, unable to keep the plea from her voice.

His arm tightens around her middle in answer.

_Hold on._

_Hold on_.

Only now does she curse herself for wasting such precious time.

If she gave Michael his death . . .

Every thunderous beat of Sven’s hooves, echoes Elsa’s rapid heart as they race across the endless plain.

 _Hold on. Please, hold on_.

* * *

Michael’s head pounds, his mouth going dry.

Time slips from him. A coppery tang fills his mouth.

Agony is a song in his blood, his bones, his breath.

Every step of the reindeer, every leap he makes over rock and hill and fence, sends it ringing afresh. There is no end, no mercy from it. It is all he could do to keep atop the reindeer's back, to cling to consciousness.

To keep his arm around Elsa.

It had been a stroke of instinct when he threw a shield of fire around the group when colliding that draugr was inevitable. Even more so when he threw a second shield of healing light.

He didn’t even know what to make of it.

But he managed to see – a second shield of pure, golden light around his first shield of flames. He’s been trying to pool all his magical strength into his healing, stitching and mending whatever wounds needed it, especially when he felt sickening crunch of pelvis breaking.

He nearly fainted with relief when he saw the group mostly unharmed.

When he saw Elsa’s face unscathed, mostly.

But the fear he heard in her voice, it stirred something within him. Something so primal that he nearly forgot about the pain in his hips.

His magic was doing a good job of healing him, his strength coming secondary.

But when that arrow shot through him, the world fractured into blinding light and blackness creeping into the edges of his vision. He was already feeling exhausted, having drained his magic too soon, too quick. The best he could do was pool the healing into stanching the bleeding.

He didn’t miss how she handled those draugr. He was so proud, and so amazed by her. Even when she roared like a lioness, he felt nothing but pride.

Pride and wonder – and love.

He’s never seen anyone fight for him like that. Even Danika and Caiden, his most trusted soldiers, had some kind of wall built between them. Either of his own creation, or theirs, but he never felt emotion as raw as that.

The queen doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter, doesn’t retreat an inch even when his blood is soaking into her back. No, she only presses further into his front, digging her nails into his skin, fierce as any bird. She’s tucked her braid into her tunic, so it doesn’t whip in his face. It almost makes him laugh.

Suddenly Elsa lets out a sob, and he follows the line of her sight.

To the kingdom gates, to the lights that twinkle in the guard towers.

“We can make it.”

There are no tears in her voice. Nothing but solid, unwavering steel.

“Faster, Sven!” She doesn’t hide the raw hope in her voice, even if it’s laced with desperation

And gods help her, that reindeer does.

As if the gods that filled the bull’s lungs with his own breath, Sven gives a surge of speed.

Faster than the wind. Faster than death.

Sven clears the first gate leading into the kingdom; erupting screams and yelps of surprise from the citizens as he barrels through. Glides over the cobblestone streets towards the castle bridge, towards the city gates he’s never been so happy to see open. Judging from Elsa’s sob of relief, she feels the same.

Sven’s mighty heart does not falter, even when Michael knew it is raging dangerously close to the point of bursting.

They cross the bridge in a flash of grey and blue.

“Get me, Ida. _NOW_!” Elsa bellows as Sven comes to a sliding stop in front of the castle doors.

Workers and servants alike gasp and yelp, some covering their mouths in shock. no doubt they both looked like hell.

Yet Elsa’s words are soft as she says to him, “Just hold on a little longer Michael.”

She carefully dismounts, one hand always seeming to brace him up. with the strength he somehow managed to gather, Michael reaches up and gives a loud scream that rings across the courtyard as he breaks the head of the arrow, then reaching back and yanking out the other half.

Blood drips from the jagged end of the arrows, splitting open his clotted wounds. Michael carelessly tosses them to the courtyard floor.

Across the way, one of the servants vomits.

There’s the sound of doors bursting open, hurrying feet padding his way.

But Michael’s eyes have since blurred, and he doesn’t have a single bit of energy left to stop himself from tumbling off of Sven’s back. 


	36. Chapter 36

Elsa’s heart nearly stops dead when Michael tumbles from Sven’s back.

She would’ve caught him herself, but Kai and another male servant step in and manage to catch him. Both of them pale at the fresh blood leaking from Michael’s shoulder wound.

Elsa was worried they’d drop him, but thankfully, Ida comes hurrying out with Mai and two other men in tow, carrying a stretcher between them. Ida’s widening eyes and gaping mouth doesn’t do much to ease Elsa’s nerves.

“We’ll have to work on him in the ballroom.” She warns.

“Fine.”

Elsa has never been more relieved to have a royal medical staff than now.

In moments, the long dining table has been cleared, a sterile white cloth spread across it, and Michael hoisted onto it. Ida pours water from a kettle into a basin while ordering Mai to pull a series of remedies from her medicine cabinet down in the servants’ quarters.

Elsa watches her hands; the long, tapered fingers crumbling this, adding drops of that, into the basin. Soaking a cloth in the hot liquid as she gives Mai instructions to prepare a second brew.

"Can you save him?" Elsa asks.

She says nothing as she wrings the cloth out and sternly but cautiously orders Elsa to cool it down.

Elsa’s too worried about Michael to balk, to care.

Ever so gently, Ida begins to clean the ruined flesh of Michael’s shoulder.

Elsa feels sick to her stomach, useless.

Perched on the stool, never moving, Elsa ignores the glances and suggestions _several_ other servants give her. Even if she is their queen, even if her health is their priority, their constant suggestions has her wondering if she looks as bad as Michael.

Some of the stableboys take Sven away, someone calling to have a bucket of warm water ready. She should go with them, make some use of herself, especially when Sven near risked his life to get them here.

But, she doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave Michael even if he doesn’t stir once under Ida’s expert hands. Only drinking water and snarling if Ida so much as looks at him funny.

Ida, somehow, endures it.

When their royal surgeons arrive, their cart of tools fresh and polished, Elsa still doesn’t move. Her steward Kai places a guiding hand on her arm, mumbling, “Your Majesty –”

Elsa wrenches free, an animalistic snarl stretching her lips to show her teeth. 

Kai blinks in surprise, eyes swimming with worry. Elsa can only mutter a quiet, stuttered apology.

The sound of tearing cloth and unbuckling catches her ear and Elsa looks to find the surgeons cutting off Michael’s many layers, Mai and a couple of assistants carefully removing his many weapons.

Even in Ida’s expert hands, it takes a long time to clean the wounds, arrange what shredded skin can be saved, apply a salve and a light bandage. As the blood clears, something tight in Elsa’s chest eases. But that still leaves his fractured pelvis.

Elsa can assume Michael pooled most of his magic into healing the bones, but depending on what the doctors find will determine whether or not they’ll operate. Their head operator – a balding man with a well-trimmed mustache and spectacles, begins feeling around Michael’s hips.

Elsa didn’t even notice they stripped him down, a simple white blanket covering his waist.

With two fingers from each hand, the doctor pokes across and around the skin. For what – Elsa can only assume internal bleeding, if that.

Elsa hopes Michael remains unconscious.

Of course, that's too much to ask for.

As the final bandages are being placed, a moan escapes his lips. They decide on an herbal concoction he can take by mouth.

"That won't be enough," She says.

They stare at her.

"That won't be enough." She repeats.

"We'll combine it with sleep syrup, Your Majesty, and he'll manage it. The herbs are more for the inflammation –" Ida begins calmly.

"Just give him the medicine!" Elsa screams at her.

Michael begins stirring at her voice, trying to reach her. The movement causes fresh blood to stain his bandages and an agonized sound to come from his mouth.

"Take her out," Ida orders.

At first, glances are exchanged, giving Elsa the chance to creep closer to Michael, but Kai and a male guard grab her by the arms and pull her out despite her commands of protest.

Commands that soon crumple into sobs. But they ignore her, pulling her into the hall. She assumes they plan to take her to her rooms. Well away from the possible operation about to happen in the ballroom.

Elsa would’ve fought them, would’ve screamed, until they pass a hall mirror.

There the queen gets a glimpse of herself, and finally understands the root of her servants’ concern.

Her skin is so dirty – coated and smeared with soot and dirt, her hair looking like disheveled, tangled mat; blood has dried on her face, her hands crusted with it, and the left sleeve of her tunic is torn open to reveal a vicious slice.

Even if she’s not a medical priority, she’s still _their_ priority.

Kai follows her gaze and his gentle voice coos, “He’ll be alright, Your Majesty. Please, let us help you. Clean yourself while they work, then by the time you’re done, you can go and see him.”

Like a child, Elsa nods, still blinking at the reflection she can’t believe is hers.

Kai and the unnamed guard pull her along, her steps feeling wooden. Far away.

They pass her off to Gerda, her handmaiden, who tells her she’s drawn a bath her. That is, after she voices her concern upon seeing the queen torn and bloodied.

Gerda gently ushers her towards the bathroom, whispering sweet comforts. Elsa isn’t beyond undressing herself, so when she steps through the threshold into the bathroom, she shuts the door behind her.

Upon seeing her reflection again, Elsa takes a steadying breath, remembering who she is. She undoes her hair, disregarding the comb until after she’s bathed and washed. She hisses at the pain in her arm as she removes her tunic, casting it aside to the corner of the bathroom. She pulls down her pants and undergarments, rolling them into a ball and tossing them with the ruined shirt. Gerda might suggest she wash them, maybe even try to stitch them back together, but Elsa plans on throwing them into the fire.

She doesn’t think she could ever wear them again anyway.

When standing naked in front of the mirror, Elsa takes another breath. She clasps her fingers around the charm of the necklace Michael got her, the metal warm from being tucked beneath her shirt.

 _They made it_ , she tells herself. _They made it back, and Michael is going to be okay_.

It may be a long healing process, but he’ll be fine. Still, she can’t help but lean forward, placing her hands on the edge of the sink. Her eyes have gained a small stain of purple, her usually composed hair now near wild. The smears of dirt and soot make her almost unrecognizable, even for herself.

But above all that is the predatory gleam in her eyes.

Kai must’ve thought she was insane when she snarled at him.

“We made it,” Elsa breathes. Saying it out loud to help solidify the fact. “We made it.”

She didn’t kill Michael because of her vengeance for the draugr.

They made it just in time before the blood loss claimed his life.

With his magic, he might not even need surgery.

 _They made it_.

Elsa blinks, feeling a small piece of herself click back into place. She stands up straight and squares her shoulders even if she’s just stepping into the bathtub.

She sinks herself up to her neck in the warm water and sweet lilac smelling soap. She cracks her first smile in hours. She’s noticed how Michael often takes an extra breath when near her. How he sometimes loses himself at her scent. If he noticed her awareness, he didn’t give any hints.

The thought alone has Elsa reaching for a fresh bar and lathering her loofah. She again hisses at the pain in her arm, the soap stinging until she dunks herself in the water.

She makes efficient work of her hair, her scalp feeling like the dirtiest part of her. She lathers her it at least three times, each time dipping her head back and thoroughly rinsing before finally wringing it out.

The water has turned grey with the thinnest hint of red. Elsa does her best to rinse her body before reaching for the rain plug. She stands and watches the water swirl down the drain with sweet-smelling bubbles. Before refilling, she rinses the tub itself until the water drains clean. She refills it, only this time she leaves the water resting to the middle of her calves.

She grabs a pitcher from the shelf and begins to pour the water on herself, making sure to rinse every inch of skin. She near rakes her fingers through her hair, gritting her teeth at the tangles before finally gathering some oil to lather along her frayed strands. When she’s finally satisfied that traces of the incident are almost gone – the slice on her arm having to be looked at by a physician – Elsa finally steps out of the tub and grabs a towel.

She dries her hair with minimal effort or care before slipping into a silk night gown. It’s a delicate tangerine orange with thin straps, the skirt falling just above her ankles. If it weren’t for the expectation of Anna and Kristoff, Elsa likely would’ve just climbed into bed. But after Kristoff let them have Sven, after he gave them a chance – it’s the least she can do.

She’s managed to distract herself for – gods she doesn’t even know how long. She never knew what time it was when they got back to the castle. She barely remembers when they left. Was it . . . five o’clock?

But before she leaves, she digs through the drawer of her right nightstand – one of two flanking the bed.

There she pulls out her mother’s scarf.

The fabric whispers as its pulled from the drawer. The thin tassels unravel from ones only to be twined with others. The beautiful embroidery always reminded Elsa of snowflakes, or autumn leaves with its with its deep berry color.

As she wraps it around herself, Elsa’s eyes sting as the scent of her mother briefs her nose. After all these years, her scent still clings to the fabric; permanently embedded from her mother wearing it so much. A beautiful blend of jasmine, blue violets, and sheer lavender.

Elsa lifts a section to her nose, inhaling her mother’s scent. When she exhales, her breath quivers, and a tear spilling over onto her cheek.

Elsa can almost feel herself settling back into her skin, her mother’s scent tethering her back to her body. It had felt so far away ever since Michael had been shot. With every breath of her mother’s scent, Elsa’s thoughts clear. Her bristled edges smoothing.

She steps into the hall with bare feet, the plush carpet muffling her footsteps. She manages to run into Gerda who is carrying a backet of laundry.

“Feeling better, Your Majesty?”

“A little,” Elsa answers, forcing a small smile. “How long was I in there?”

“I would say about an hour and a half.”

“Do you know if they’re finished, with Michael?”

“I cannot say, Your Majesty.”

With a small nod, Elsa says, “Thank you, Gerda.”

She spares a quick not to the handmaid to burn the dirtied clothes before taking her leave. Folding her arms, she aims to take an alternate route around the ballroom where the doctors are likely performing surgery.

She’ll just stop by, ask how he’s doing, then go and wait for Anna and Kristoff and Olaf. At least, that’s what she tells herself.

Huddling into her mother’s scarf, she tries to steady her heart as she turns into the familiar hallway, the ballroom doors coming into sight. She stops in front of the polished doors, unfurling herself and lifting her chin.

But as she raises her hand to knock, one of the doors open. Elsa bites back a yelp as the head doctor and Ida emerge, wiping their hands with clean rags. The two seem just as startled as her, chirping with surprise. Together they bow with a hushed, “Your Majesty.”

Elsa spares them a dip of her chin as she asks the doctor, “Will he be alright?”

He nods, and Elsa could’ve sworn she saw something like impressiveness sparks in his hazel eyes. “He will be okay, though he will need some bedrest for a while.”

“What about his injuries?”

“Mostly surface burns and cuts.” Ida chimes. “The wound on his shoulder will defiantly scar, but that’s the least of his worries.”

“H-How do you –”

“He’s very, _very_ lucky that arrow didn’t hit anything vital. In fact, we were shocked to see how . . . whole everything seemed.”

“What about his fractured pelvis?”

The doctor fiddles with his mustache. “I checked what I could, and it turns out it’s not as severe as I expected. Nothing a little bedrest and medication won’t heal. It was a bit chilling.”

Ida nods in agreement. “He’s one lucky man.”

“Not luck,” Elsa mumbles.

“I’m sorry?” says Idea, giving the queen a confused expression.

Elsa clamps her mouth shut, folding in her lips. She grips the edges of her mother’s scarf. “Oh, nothing.”

She attempts to look over the doctor’s shoulder, but can’t see much as it fill the frame of the door. “So just bedrest and medication? That’s all?”

“That is it,” the doctor confirms, catching the hint and inching out of Elsa’s way. But when she finds the staff near finished cleaning up the ballroom, she frowns.

Then Ida says, “We’ve already had some staff members take him back to his rooms.”

“Oh, I see. Um . . . has there been any words from Anna or Kristoff?”

“Nothing yet, Your Majesty.” When seeing her disheartened expression, Ida adds, “Michael should be available for visitors. We cleaned him as best we could.”

“Right. Right.” Elsa clears her throat. “Thank you both so much, for what you’ve done.”

The two of them bow, the doctor saying, “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Before they depart, Ida spares a quick five minutes to disinfect and wrap the slice on Elsa’s arm. As they part, Elsa reaches out and touches Ida’s shoulder. The woman turns with raised brows.

“I’m sorry, for screaming at you. There’s no excuse for that.”

Ida hums as she folds the cap of her castle uniform. Her golden hair is coiled at the back of her head, her chocolate brown eyes filled with understanding. She gives a motherly smile that makes Elsa near cringe, undeserving of such affection. “It’s alright, Your Majesty. People will always do crazy things when they’re in love.”

The sentence shocks Elsa enough that she almost steps out of her touch. She can only muster a nervous laugh. “Wh-What? What are you talking about?”

Ida’s knowing smile makes her feel so small. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you. You two seem to have something special.”

Elsa shakes her head. Even if her heart feels like its soaring right now. “We’ve just accepted one another as, partners, in this investigation. We might have formed a friendship, but he’s just teaching me how to fight, and when living in the castle, we see each other every day –”

Gods, she doesn’t even know what she’s saying anymore. And Ida’s smile soon turns into a conspirator’s grin.

She spares Elsa from further humiliation by simply saying, “He’s been here for nearly a month and a half. That’s more time you’ve spent with him than any royal suitor.”

“He’s not a suitor, Ida.”

“But he is a rather dashing young man, Your Majesty. You’d be lucky to have someone like him at your side. And he for you.”

She walks away without another word. Elsa only stares after her, her fingers going to wrap around the charm once more. Still it is surprisingly warm, as if it holds a small piece of the magic he bears.

Despite what she had been told, Elsa goes towards the front castle doors. Trying her best to wave and give apologetic smiles to the servants she passes. She can feel their gazes like red-hot daggers. No doubt they thought the same as Kai when she came charging into the courtyard.

Once outside, she takes a quick look at the front gates, wide open with citizens milling about beyond the castle bridge. When she doesn’t see the familiar shapes of Kristoff or Anna or Olaf, she turns and heads toward the stables to check on Sven. She prays the reindeer managed to calm his heart. She spares a nod to a stableboy, who – bless his heart – smiles back, even tipping his cap to her.

She finds Sven in his stall, laying down with his legs tucked beneath him. Upon her entering, he springs to his feet but relaxes when he sees its her. It looks like he’s been munching on hay, a lot of hay.

Good. He needs it; and deserves it, more importantly.

His back – which had been stained with Michael’s blood – has been thoroughly cleaned and washed and groomed. Probably one of the few times he didn’t refuse. She had a hard-enough time getting him showered for Anna’s birthday. She can see small mats of his fur where the veterinarians likely applied some creams for his burns.

Elsa approaches with an extended hand, the reindeer nuzzling his snout without hesitation. Tears line Elsa’s eyes as she wraps her arms around Sven’s neck, patting his flank. She feels his head nuzzle her shoulder.

“Thank you, so much Sven.” Elsa whispers into his fur.

The reindeer softly snorts in reply, grunting lightly before more nuzzling.

Elsa pulls back, scratching under his chin. “They didn’t do any surgery.” Sven’s ears perk up. “Looks like his magic healed most of his injuries. The worst thing will be recovering from the blood loss.”

Sven grunts happily, near dancing on his hooves before nuzzling close to Elsa. She wraps her arms back around the reindeer’s neck. She scratches his chin, then his cheek.

Elsa giggles. “Get some rest. And expect a _lot_ of carrots tomorrow morning.”

* * *

Michael lets out a low groan as he surfaces from the warm, heavy embrace of darkness. His tongue dry and heavy in his mouth.

Cracking open an eye, he finds himself laying on his bed. A few candelabrums illuminate the space, dancing across the walls it casts shadows from the drawn drapes to the glittering crystals of the chandelier above. Everything bathed in a warm, golden light.

Michael shifts his body—slightly.

No hint of pain beyond a dull throb in his shoulder and tight pull across his waist. He manages to lift his head enough to pull away the cotton sheet covering his naked body. Where dirt and soot and blood had blanketed his body, only a few bandages remain. His skin near scrubbed clean.

He doesn’t want to think how they did _that_.

The last thing he remembers, they made it through the castle gates, Elsa bellowing an order like one of his commanders. Then darkness swept in.

The blood loss had been what knocked his feet out from under him — more blood than he’d ever lost at once, at least so quickly, thanks to his magic being stifled.

He can’t recall how long he’s been out – hours, days.

He didn’t care. Not when the warm light reveals the delicate woman lying facedown on the side of his bed, the lower half of her body sitting on an upholstered ottoman. Her arms cradle her head, one outstretched toward him. Reaching for his hand, mere inches from hers.

Elsa.

Her cornsilk hair spills across the blanket, across his shins, veiling much of her face. She wears a thinly strapped nightgown; a beautifully embroidered, berry-colored scarf having sloped off her shoulder to reveal the white bandage around her upper arm.

Wincing at the lingering ache in his body, Michael stretches his arm just enough to touch her fingers.

They’re cold, their tips pink and clean. They contract, pulling away as she sucks in a sharp, awakening breath.

Michael savors every feature as she grimaces at a crick in her neck. But her eyes settle on him.

She stills as she finds him staring at her, awake and utterly in awe of the woman who had shattered hundreds of draugr like glass.

At first, he thought she’d been sitting long enough that the plait of her braid unraveled, but no.

Her hair is down and free, a large section of it pooling over her shoulder, reaching the base of her breast. He never realized how much hair she has, always being so tightly bound in her single braid.

Tired. She looks so tired, yet her chin remains unbowed. Even as she near lunges across the bed, spilling the scarf onto its edge. “How are you feeling?” She brushes a hand over his forehead, testing for fever. “You seem all right.”

“Fine,” he grunts. Aching. Exhausted. His arm and shoulder throb, but he’s endured worse. Yet finding her sitting at his bedside . . . “Alive.”

Her face remains unreadable, even as her eyes dip to his body. The sheet has slid down enough to reveal most of his torso, though it still hides the bandages across his waist. Yet he’s never felt so keenly naked.

“We made it just in time. I’ve never knew Sven could run that fast. I promised him a lot of carrots tomorrow morning.” She says with a smile, but the words are thick, and her eyes gleam. He reaches out with his good arm to grip one of her hands and squeezes tightly. “Please don’t ever do that again,” she breathes.

“Sure. Next time, I’ll ask the mindless, undead warriors _not_ to fire arrows at you.”

Her mouth tightens and wobbles, and she rests her brow on his good arm. He lifts the other arm, sending burning pain shooting through him as he strokes her hair. It is smooth and gleaming near silvery in the light of the candles. She must’ve taken a thorough bath, maybe even a few.

“Hey,” he whispers, Elsa lifting her head to gaze at him. “I remembered what you did out there.” His tucks a few strands of her bangs behind her ear. “You were amazing. I’m so proud of you, Elsa.”

Is that a hint of color stealing across her pale cheeks? Her throat bobs, as if trying to swallow down her initial response. She grips the edges of that scarf and pulls it tighter around herself. “Ida and the doctors said all you really need is some bedrest, along with some medication to help with the soreness.”

“That’s good to hear.” He says, voice like gravel.

“It’s not so much good, as it is a relief.” Michael looks to her with a stunned blink. “The things you did . . . all to protect me – or us –” her voice hitches on the last word. She clears her throat. “You could’ve been killed.”

Michael shrugs. “It’s part of my job, to protect you.”

“I didn’t think it would affect me this much.” Elsa mutters. Her eyes drifting down, her gaze going far-seeing. She twines some of the tassels around her fingers.

He doesn’t know what to say to that. There’s some implication he’s not seeing – or doesn’t want to see. Seeing the tears shine in her eyes just now . . .

Michael grits his teeth around the sharp stab in his lower back, his shoulder. He manages to get onto his elbows and deems it enough. “It’s been a while since I was injured like this. I forgot what an inconvenience it is.”

“Because you’re just that good?” A faint smiles tugs on her mouth.

Michael grins. “That. And it’s been a while since I’ve been in a battle like that.”

A small nod, her smile fading a bit, but the color on her cheeks lingers. “Your magic is incredible. I assume it’s what healed the worst of your fracture.”

“I did what I could.” He says with a smirk. “It feels like nothing compared to yours. The way you froze those draugr, I didn’t even realize how many there were –”

His eyes suddenly widen.

“Anna –”

The shock causes him to jolt upright, white lightning flashing across his vision. Elsa’s cold hand is immediately there, ushering him back.

“Be careful.” She hisses. She slowly lays him back, and when he’s cradled by pillows once more, she says, “They arrived about an hour after us. They looked exhausted and dirty, of course, but otherwise fine. Thanks in no small part to you.”

Michael nods, the tension easing from his chest. He doesn’t breathe as Elsa gently reaches out her hand. And interlaces their fingers.

“I was so worried about you.” she whispers.

He is glad he’s lying down. The words would have knocked him to his knees. The last time they had a conversation like this, he ridiculed her for her worry. But after she told him she cared, how she felt safe with him . . .

After that night she took care of him . . .

Taking a deep breath, he says with equal quiet, “We’ve been over this, Elsa.”

The queen shakes her head. “I just don’t get how you can do it. So easily.”

“I’m a soldier, Elsa. I was trained and prepared to give my life in battle. I knew the risks going into this job.

“I know,” she says softly, and no regret or hurt dims her face. Only clear, unwavering calm shines there. The face of the mighty lady she has already become. One who rules Arendelle with wisdom and compassion.

They stare at each other for a minute, Michael drinking in the sight of her: the pale, grave face; the shimmer of the silk nightgown; the injuries. Yet her shoulders are back, chin high. He runs this thumb over the back of her hand.

Then Elsa untangles their hands and rises. She takes the scarf and places it around her shoulders once more. “I’ll make sure to deliver some extra books to your rooms. The doctor said you’re going to be in bed for some time.”

Michael smiles despite the emptiness of his palm. “How long is that supposed to be?”

“At least a few weeks, by their means. But if you rest well, I’m sure your magic can half that.”

“I hope.” Michael mutters as he plops his head back on the pillow. He grits his teeth as he sits up fully.

Elsa sits on the edge of the bed, right beside his shoulder, and runs a hand through his hair. Michael closes his eyes, leaning into the touch, unable to stop the deep purr that rolls through his chest.

She makes a low noise of wonder, perhaps something more, and her fingers strokes again.

This close, he had forgotten how much he towers over her. Atop Sven, she had been a force of nature, a defiant storm. His sheet slips dangerously low, but he lets it lie where it pools in his lap.

He doesn’t miss the dip of her stare. Or the long, upward drag of her eyes along his torso. He can almost feel it, lingering on every muscle and scar. He suddenly grins. “However, this means I’m going to miss Anna’s birthday party.”

“I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“I’m sure she will. But I pity you.”

Elsa looks to him with raised brows and slightly widened eyes.

“Without me, now you’ll have to deal with any possible suitor who visits the occasion. You’ll be bored out of your mind.”

A jaunty slant to her lips, then she lifts a hand to his cheek and runs her thumb along it. Every breath is an effort of control.

Michael holds absolutely still as she brings her mouth to his. Brushes her lips across his own. As gentle as the kiss he gave her cheek in the garden.

She pulls back. “We’ll see who will be bored out of their mind.”

Is that a purr in her voice?

“Rest, Michael. I’ll wake you when it’s time for breakfast.”

Too shaken by that soft, beautiful kiss to bother with words, he lays back down.

She smiles at his utter obedience, and, as if she can’t help herself, leans in once more.

This time just placing a kiss at the base of his forehead.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” she breathes.

Rising from the bed, she adjusts the scarf and heads for the door. But not without an extra swing her hips.

Despite the growl in his throat, Michael can’t help but smile.

 _Cruel, wicked woman_.


	37. Chapter 37

The throne would’ve suited her well, if it wasn’t so chipped. But the black marble streaked in gold is a nice touch.

Sitting in the hollowed foundation of a throne room, the midnight beauty drags a taloned nail along the arm of her throne. One of her robed minions kneels before her, waiting. Let it wait.

Streaks of silver moonlight pierce through the holes in the ceiling, the viewing pool just two yards ahead of her. The oculus at the top of the dome mirrors the moon above, it’s surface smoother than polished glass.

Michael shows tremendous control, considering his lack of formal training. She had witnessed that shield of fire and gold, spearing a small tether of her own magic into his; watching how it mended his bones on what would’ve been a severe fracture. How that shield of fire consumed the explosion; those flames looking like sparks compared to his power.

But still he knows little of what prowls beneath his skin.

The power he wields.

A beast waiting to be unleashed – and the only threat to her.

She was surprised to feel those onyx eyes of the elder troll staring at her. And she made a point to stab at the little creature with her own power.

A warning, for now.

“It would seem your little spells had worked.” She finally speaks to the kneeling figure.

“Perhaps to well, My Liege?” the figure responds, keeping its head low. When she doesn’t respond, it continues, “Too many were eagerly awaiting to cross through and into their new hosts. The number of dragur was, unexpected. Even close to disastrous.”

“Perhaps.” She says, tapping her nail on the arm of her broken throne. “We’re going to have to limit how many can come through; but it was a success, nonetheless. Seeing how they adapted well they adapted to their new skins.”

The figure nods, still keeping its head low. Its bony, gnarled hand barely visible in the moonlight. “And those are ones who are dead. What if we were to extend that reach . . . to the living, My Lady?”

“An interesting proposal. But for now, we keep pushing Michael and the queen.”

The lady of the dark finally stands, the skirt of her dress hissing as it pools down the steps. But with one step forward, it snaps against her body and begins rippling behind her, as if it were liquid midnight. The figure doesn’t move.

“Tonight’s attack shows they’re still learning the limits of their abilities. They still don’t know what they’re fully capable of, haven’t reached their full level of power.”

“What do we do, My Lady?”

The pale beauty reaches the viewing pool, placing her hands on its stone rim.

A spider’s smile.

“Easy. We keep pushing them. They lack knowledge and control. The more we push, the easier it’ll be to drain them. Perhaps even push them to burning out. Then we strike when they are weakest.”

“Yes, My Lady. But didn’t you have plans for the man? Michael?”

“I still do.” She snipes. “But I am not ready. Neither is he. Keep preparing the runes, monitor the portals.”

Pure dismissal.

The figure rises and bows before gliding out of the room.

Looking at the reflection, she bites her lip.

They still have plenty of work to do. Still plenty of experiments to try. There are many ways to raise an army of the dead, many more to create one from the living.

But all of it means nothing if Michael lives.

He’s a hard man to find. The rebels taught him well.

For so long she could always hear that echo of power wherever she went. A dull, dull vibration through her bones; a skip of her heartbeat. Could barely feel that thin string of power that always seemed to tug at her rib; let alone try and follow it.

Now she’s found him, and she won’t let him slip away again.

Gods only know what’s beneath his skin.

And gods help them all if it’s ever unleashed upon this world.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Hey guys! Sorry I haven't been uploading but I've started school and my writing classes are very demanding, so I apologize if my uploads are a little slow. The classes demand a lot of creativity. But I hope everyone is staying safe! And I thank you for your patience and understanding.  
> To anyone who's in school, stay focused and study hard!  
> KeshaRocks~

There is a gate, and eternity lies beyond its black archway.

But not for him. No, this isn’t some doorway into the Afterlife.

It is a glimpse into another world.

It is a land of unimaginable perfection and beauty, existing somewhere beyond the brilliance of the sun. A paradise.

From far beyond the threshold of the gate, he could hear it. Singing.

One of the most beautiful and haunting melodies known to man – so perfect that even the gods had to pause and listen to the sweet notes.

But he cannot reach it, cannot go to it even when his blood roars and his magic writhes.

The woman – the Midnight Beauty – has built a coffin, crafting it of dark, glimmering stone.

Stone his fire cannot melt. Cannot pierce. The only way to escape is to become it – dissolve into it like sea-foam on a beach.

Every breath is thinner than the previous one. She didn’t put any holes in this coffin.

She’s trying to smother his flames.

Smother _him_.

Beyond his confines, he knew a second coffin sits beside his. Knew, because the muffled screams within still reach him here.

A Snow Queen and an orphaned soldier. Silver and gold. Fire and ice. Both trapped by the Lady of the Dark.

The air will run out soon. He’s already lost too much of it in his frantic clawing at the stone. Attempting to get out, attempting to get to the queen. His fingertips pulse where he’s broken nails and skin.

Those female screams became quieter.

He should accept it, embrace it. Only when he did will the lid open.

The air is so hot, so precious. He can’t get out, can’t get out—

Michael rockets up in bed, immediately red lighting flashes down his abdomen, drawing a heavy grunt from his clenched teeth. He places his hand on his stomach and takes deep breaths.

His body is covered in sweat, the sheets clinging to his legs. Slowly, a thin wave of nausea creeps through his head. His throat is raw, his mouth full of ash, his face soaked and sticky.

Looking all around the room, he remembers where he is. In the Kingdom of Arendelle. In the Snow Queen’s castle. In Elsa’s castle.

He’s safe.

He’s free.

He’s –

“Michael.” A voice softly mumbles.

Michael. His name is Michael. He’s an orphan. A rebel soldier with no purpose in life, reduced to a mercenary –

“Michael.” The voice says again.

He flinches at the soft tone off to his left. He blinks and finds Elsa standing with an outstretched hand and brows knitted together in concern. His eyes flick back and forth, all over her body, to the windows and curtains behind her, seeing the rays of the dawn’s light spearing through the slim opening of the curtains.

The smell of something burning wafts towards his nose, but the fireplace is baren . . .

The sheets, the blankets are ripped. Shredded. But not with a knife. And that ashy, smoky taste coating his mouth . . .

His hand is unnervingly steady as he lifts it to find his fingers ending in simmering embers. Living claws of flame that had sliced through the bed linens like they were cauterizing wounds —

Without thinking – without processing that he pushes past the Queen of Arendelle; pushing past her with claws of flame – Michael shoves her aside and yanks the curtains open, snapping them to their sides and flooding the open bedroom with light.

His breathing becoming uneven. Michael presses his hands against the glass, resting his forehead against its bite before scrambling into the living room, throwing more curtains open.

“Michael –” Elsa calls, but he doesn’t hear her.

Within the roaring in his ears he can only hear her dream specter screaming and banging against the stone coffin. Michael throws open the curtains to another window, near yanking it off of its bar. Elsa’s footsteps follow him into the solarium where he stands at the epicenter, taking a deep breath as the dawn’s light is already warming his skin.

He’s here.

He’s alive.

He’s free.

Unfortunately, the feeling doesn’t last long.

“Michael –?”

Suddenly the world tilts beneath his feet, and his head is swimming before he hurtles into the bathing room, falls to his knees before the toilet, and is sick to his stomach.

Again.

Again.

His fingertips hiss against the cool porcelain.

 _Breathe_ , he tries to think. _Wink them out like candles, one by one._

He heaves into the toilet again, shuddering as light and heat crest and rush out of him, and savors the empty, cool dark that pools in their wake.

When he dares to look at his hands, braced on the bowl, the embers have been extinguished.

Even that power in his veins, along his bones, slumbers once more.

The whispering of Elsa’s slippered feet hurry over to the bathroom, her hands bracing against the threshold; no doubt cringing as she beholds him. Michael clings to the toilet, spitting once, and reaches up to flush. He watches the water swirl away entirely before he twists his head to look at her.

Her hair is braided once more, back in its place over her shoulder. She wears an off-shoulder dress of simple make; the color a shimmering apricot with its long sleeves and paneled skirt.

What is she doing here? He thought she left him earlier in the night. Or was that already a day ago? Gods, he slept like the dead he doesn’t even know.

And frankly, doesn’t really care, right now.

“What happened?” she asks gently.

Michael slowly shakes his head. “I had a bad dream.”

An understatement. But he can’t muster a proper response yet. The feeling of that roughened stone against his back, his flames unable to do anything –

Michael pivots, barely turning in time. Elsa’s soft footsteps approach and her hand strokes long, cold, and soothing lines down the curve of his back, as over and over he yields whatever dinner he managed to devour. When the latest wave has ebbed, he breathes.

The calm tenor of Elsa’s voice is unwavering as she asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He should, but still he can’t answer. Michael leans against the coolness of the nearby bathtub and closes his eyes. Within seconds, Elsa hand – coated in all its glorious ice – is placed on his forehead.

Michael sighs with pleasure as he feels the chilled wave ripple along his body, down his neck and over his shoulders, right down to the tips of his toes. He keeps his eyes closed, but when he feels Elsa’s hands gently grasp his chin, he wraps his fingers around it to move it further down his neck. He hopes she doesn’t mind how slick with sweat it is.

She doesn’t, it would seem – as the feeling of her magic shifts to evaporate the moisture, careful not to freeze it against his skin. Like when fanning one’s self on a humid day.

“Are you able to walk?” Elsa asks.

A slow nod of his head. “Maybe. Just . . . give me a few minutes.”

In answer, a sharp pinch in his hip has him hissing before settling with his back against the cold tub. He completely forgot about his injury. His shoulder begins to throb, and Michael places his hand on the bandages. When he pulls his hand away, he sighs when he sees a thin stain of blood on his skin. The gauze is fresh – hopefully, it’ll hold until later.

“I’ll get you some water.” Elsa says, leaving without waiting for his answer – or washing her hands.

Already his skin feels like it’s reheating without her glacial touch. Michael keeps taking deep breaths, brushing his hair off his forehead. He hears Elsa’s footsteps come back, a glass of water in her hand.

Despite his state, he can’t help but smile as he watches Elsa’s fingers twiddle and wave, and four ice cubes drop into the glass. She kneels next to him, holding out the glass. The skirt of her dress pool around them.

Michael bites the inside of his cheek as his hand quivers when he reaches. He takes a couple of gulps before slowly sipping, imagining the water flooding his heated core.

“What happened?” Elsa repeats, brushing a hand along her legs to tuck the skirt beneath.

Another deep breath. Michael could’ve sworn something grumbled inside him. The groaning of some ancient behemoth settling down into slumber.

He takes a couple more sips, his throat tight. “In my dream . . . well, it felt more like, a vision . . .” Michael doesn’t bother hiding the quiver in his voice, “I heard, singing. I saw . . . some beautiful place. It looked like a heaven. But I was trapped, in this . . . box. I think the same one from Pabbie’s vision.”

Elsa is silent, offering a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“And there was that lady, the one from the darkness. And there was another box, or coffin.” He swallows. “And I heard banging from inside . . .”

Elsa’s brows furrow, and Michael’s throat constricts so tight he has to take another sip, finishing the glass.

Slowly he turns to the queen, uncaring of the stinging lining his eyes. “And it sounded like you. You were banging from inside the coffin; screaming, trying to get out. A-And I couldn’t do anything.”

Tears roll down his cheeks, and Elsa inches closer to him, resting her hand on his shoulder. Michael’s inhale of breath quivers.

“I couldn’t do anything.” He repeats. His voice hitches on the last word. “And I had that same feeling I did when I watched my parents get slaughtered.”

Elsa’s head lifts from his shoulder. He can only close his eyes as she feels the back of her hand caress his cheek to catch a tear, followed by a brush of her lips against his skin. He’s too weak to care despite the flurry of rousing chills that wave across his chest.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her hand resting on his shoulder.

“I don’t know.” He mumbles. At least his head feels better. Feels like it’s actually secured to his shoulders.

“You can stay with me until they replace your sheets.” She states, already standing.

He eyes her leerily, before arguing, “It’s already dawn. I might as well stay up.” He rests his head against the rim of the tub, eyes closed. “Which, why are _you_ already up?”

He can hear Elsa’s smile as she answers, “Because I’m the Queen of Arendelle. I do have duties to perform.”

“Even so, at this hour?”

“I’d like to enjoy some time to myself before I have to sign papers and greet visiting dignitaries.”

A jaunty slant of his lips. “Oh you, poor, poor thing.”

The queen gives a gentle giggle. “Well, if you’re able to give such backtalk to me, you’re fine to walk to my rooms then.”

Michael flutters his eyes open, taking a deep breath. Thankfully, the room is still. “I’m fine. I can sleep on the couch.”

“You are _not_ sleeping on a couch with a still-healing pelvis.” Elsa pouts. “Just sleep in my room until they change your sheets.”

He finishes the water before slowly and carefully getting to his feet, Elsa placing the glass on the counter. Lifting his head, he carefully looks around the room, waiting for something to tip, waiting for something to spin, but thankfully, everything is still and solid.

Still, he doesn’t argue when Elsa wraps her arms around his middle. “Did the doctor give you a cane at all?” she asks as they enter the main chamber of his spacious suite.

“Not that I recall. I don’t think they planned on me shredding the sheets with fiery claws.”

Elsa chuckles, placing a hand on his chest to help steady him. Michael tries to keep most of his weight on his left foot, the doctor mentioning the fracture was on his right side; that and he doesn’t want Elsa to carry him.

They come to the living room and Elsa rests him against the back of the couch. Michael keeps himself steady, visualizing his healing magic pouring itself over his damaged bones – imaging it like gold ore casting his bones in armor. He tries to ignore the delicate pop he feels beneath the skin of his waist.

Elsa rotates her hands, fingers twiddling with streams of blue wisps and snowflakes. Michael can’t stop his chuckle as a small ball of ice slowly stretches and thins into a walking stick.

“I assume since your fracture wasn’t as bad as we all thought, by now it should be safe for you to walk.” She says.

Michael shrugs, noting the dampened pain in his right. Looks like the magic is doing its work. She holds it out to him, and he takes it with an exaggerated dip of his chin. With the cane for his right and Elsa for his left, Michael stands as the queen gathers a couple of tunics and pants, triple the amount of underwear. He applauds her for not flinching when touching such intimates. However, there is the slightest hint of color in her cheeks.

Sloppily packing them into a satchel, Elsa slings it across her body before hurrying to his side. “You think you can make the trek?”

Michael smirks. “I’ve made worse. You’re sure about this?”

Elsa raises a brow at him. “It’s fine, Michael. And right now, you don’t really have a choice.”

“I just hope you’ll a good explanation ready. Especially for Anna.”

“Anna needs to learn when to mind her own business.” Elsa says as she wraps Michael’s arm around her shoulder.

Helping him gain his balance, they begin to make their slow trek up to Elsa’s room. Michael wasn’t lying when he said he made worse, with far more injuries – still the stairs proved to be quite a nuisance. Not that he’d ever confess that to her, and they make it to her rooms, nevertheless. Luckily at this hour, few servants are just awakening; they didn’t encounter even one. He’ll have to figure out how he’s going to leave without drawing many eyes. But that can wait.

Elsa opens one of the two doors leading into her room. Smaller, to his surprise. The bed is pushed against the left wall, a beautiful velvet canopy of that same berry color hanging overhead. A balcony takes up most of the back wall with floor-to-ceiling windows and three sets of doors. Over on the right sits a corner fireplace surrounded by plush couches and chairs, a vanity sitting parallel in the other corner next to a changing screen.

“The bathroom is the second doors on the left, the ones at the back leads to my closet.” Elsa instructs.

“Doubt I’d have much use for that, unless you want me to steal your style.”

Elsa smiles brightly as she guides him to the bed. She pulls back the quit and the sheets, motioning him to sit on the left side of the bed. He almost sighs when he settles into the firmness of the mattress.

The walking staff she created disappears in a flurry of snowflakes. The clock on her fireplace reads six-thirty in the morning. Elsa pays no heed as she pulls the covers over him. Michael fights a smile as he watches her almost tuck him in, then moves to adjust the pillows.

“How soon do your queenly duties begin?” he asks.

“Too soon.” She grumbles. “You won’t be having any plans today.”

Michael shrugs, the smile starting to show. “How about Anna and Kristoff?”

“They’ll be in bed most of the day, but they’re encouraged to exercise.”

“I remember you saying they’d be okay but, I don’t know, I just wanted to be sure.”

Elsa nods. “Of course.”

From the light of the windows, he can see that her gown is indeed a nightgown, but she could pass it for a formal wear if she tried. The glittering ice sequin winks at him in the light of the growing dawn, setting her form rippling like a lake surface.

He also notices she’s wearing the necklace he’d given her. As well as when she wrote it earlier in the night; and the day before that. Did she even take it off since he gave it to her?

The thought makes his smile break free. Not enough to show his teeth, but merely pleased.

When she’s satisfied with the arrangement of the pillows, Michael leans back with a grunt. “How long was I asleep, after you left?”

He doesn’t bother bringing up the kiss. He didn’t think it really mattered or meant anything. He kept chalking it up to some kind of emotional response to him saving her life, nearly watching him die, and then having a huge magical battle, and nearly watching him die again.

Or something like that. At least that makes sense.

“You slept like the dead all night. I was just checking up on you when you woke up.” Elsa sits at the foot o the bed, hopping herself up and tucking her hands beneath her skirt. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if you fell _back_ asleep for the next three days. You still need to recover.”

“I’ll be out of this bed before you know it. And I don’t know if I can even sleep for the rest of the day.”

Indeed, the visions from that nightmare still haunt the back of his mind, crisp and clear like a moonpool. Michael folds his hands over his stomach, exhaling sharply.

Elsa leans closer, placing a palm on the blanket. “Do you want to talk about it some more? Maybe we can try and figure some things out.”

“Doubtful. I can’t make sense of it. I saw so much . . . heard so much.” He says quietly.

He looks down and turns over his hand, as though he could see those fiery claws. Not a moment later, Elsa’s pale fingers slide across his palm and clasp around his hand. Michael’s fingers fold over hers. He didn’t even notice her crawl onto the bed to sit next to him.

“Are you going to be okay?” She whispers.

A small shrug, barely any effort behind it. “I guess.”

Elsa hums, but suddenly chirps brightly. “I know what you need. Come on.”

She scoots herself further onto the bed until she’s buried on the pillows, rearranging the ones she just set for him. He can’t help but chuckle as Elsa removes her slippers and settles herself.

“Come here.” She motions with a smile.

“What?”

“My mother’s words: Cuddle close. Scootch in.”

Another chuckle, and even some warmth flooding his cheeks; but when he smiles, it’s real. Unrushed. Unhidden. It grows wider as Elsa reaches out and takes his good wrist, pulling him further into the bed, closer to her.

He’s a little hesitant, but she doesn’t seem to care. Because her grip doesn’t relent until he’s tucked under her arm, his head resting on the nape of her neck. Rather close to her chest. This behavior surprises him, and he almost wonders if he’s dreaming again, until her cold hand strokes along his hair, her fingers combing his bangs away from his face.

And yes, admittedly some small, innate, childish part of him does appreciate this sort of intimacy. He still remembers all the times his mother sung him to sleep, each memory branded into his brain in those final moments she died.

He can still feel the touch of her hand – gentle despite the callus she built through burns in the kitchen, splinters from chopping wood; still feel the vibrations of her humming through his skin, down to his bones; still hear her once strong, beating heart through her chest. And for a moment, he thought she was invincible.

The memories make him grow still; heavy, even somber as he settles next to Elsa. The queen seems to notice, as she delicate traces a line down the center of his nose. He looks up to her, and she gives a smile he can describe no other way than motherly. Her hand caresses the back of his neck, combing through his hair again.

And when she sang, the whole world fades.

“ _Where the northwind_

_meets the sea, there’s a river_

_Full of memory”_

Her voice is soft, ethereal, the sound of a lullaby half-remembered.

He knows he’s smiling like an idiot, but as Elsa rests her cheek atop his head, he damns the whole world to hell. He snuggles – actually snuggles – deeper into chest, as though he were no more than a toddler once more, back in his little cabin home.

“ _Sleep my darling safe and sound_

 _For in this river all is found_.”

“What river is this?” Michael interrupts, earning a displeased click of the tongue from Elsa. He can’t help but chuckle with a sly grin.

“It’s a special river my mother told me about, which she heard from _her_ mother. It’s said to hold all the answers about the past; about what we are a part of.”

“Wish I knew where to find something like that. It would defiantly help me solve a lot of problems.”

Elsa giggles, the charm of the necklace resting a hairsbreadth away from the neckline of her gown. “Hush and let me finish.”

Michael relaxes with content as Elsa hypnotizes him once more.

“ _In her waters,_

_Deep and true_

_Lie the answers, and a path for you_

_Dive down deep into her sound._

_But not too far, or you’ll be drowned_.”

“Why do lullabies always have to some sort of terrible warning in them?”

“I wonder that all the time.” Elsa says with a breathy laugh. She then gives a hard tap to his shoulder. “Shush.”

She continues her song, speaking of this magical river that only sings to those who hear. How magic flows in her song. He assumes she can only speak to magic wielders; wonders if the river is really a woman herself. Some kind of oracle calling to the hero to begin their life-altering journey.

Her song continues to tell – or ask, more like it, if you can brave what you most fear. If you can face what the river knows.

Michael’s skin crawls with goosebumps.

He doesn’t know when he begins crying. Somehow he skips a breath, and it sets his lips wobbling. He shouldn’t cry, not here, not with her. But then her cold, smooth hand grasps his to drape it across her abdomen, Michael angles his head up to find Elsa looking at him. She smiles slightly — and he knew she understood.

So Michael looks at his Queen of Arendelle and smiles back.

“Will you sing it again? Please?”

With a smile that could rival the Northern Lights, Elsa adjusts her legs and grants his wish.


	39. Chapter 39

Elsa’s never felt so warm in her life. Even with a fire roaring in her fireplace, even with layers of quilts and blankets, that little kernel of frost always seemed to radiate with a frigidness that kept her awake since fear consumed her judgement. Since that day she hurt Anna when they were little.

But this . . . this kind of warmth is everlasting. It doesn’t try to smother her magic, doesn’t try to melt it. Instead, it encases itself around her frost – a golden, rippling shield of light and warmth. A seed from the sun itself.

It’s so enveloping, so cozy that Elsa dreads the thought of having to leave it. Slowly, she swims to semiconsciousness, each of her senses gradually awakening and piecing together a picture in the blackness of her closed eyes.

Her room, judging from the smell of the sheets, and the direction of the light casting onto her closed lids – swirls of red and yellow churning and undulating. She lengthens her legs out long, savoring the sweet stretch before tucking them in close. She presses her cheek deeper into her pillow, a small smile on her lips; perfectly content to just laying in bed all day. Laying in this steady, cocooning tenderness.

She doesn’t remember when she fell asleep, but she could’ve sworn she was already up at around –

Elsa’s eyes spring open, blinking against the muffled light permeating behind her curtains. She lifts her head from the pillow, and as she attempts to shift her legs, the sudden weight draped across her abdomen becomes distinct.

Carefully Elsa props herself on her elbow and slowly rolls to looks over her shoulder.

She can’t stop her gasp of surprise as she finds Michael laying next to her, his tan arm draped across her waist. His torso bare safe for the bandages around his shoulder, his face softened into handsomeness from sleep.

Looking down, she exhales with relief as she’s laying above the sheets, and not beneath them. She doesn’t know what she’d do if that happened.

But they are still laying together – closely. His chin would’ve been resting atop her head, his chest pressed against her back.

He barely moves, and she knew he wouldn’t for a while. The kind of sleep that claims him now, not even an earthquake could wake him.

She tries to calm her raging heart, reminding herself that the curtains are still drawn, meaning no one has since come into her room. She shifts onto her back, Michael’s arm now draping low across her waist. He stirs, but doesn’t move. That’s a miracle in itself, she realizes — that he feels safe enough to sleep soundly with her. Her point only emphasized when his grip tightens, almost tugging her back to him.

Elsa bites her lip as she carefully eases herself out of his grasp, gently shifting his arm so she doesn’t disturb him. She shivers at the sudden lack of warmth. The temptation to slip back in and disregard her queenly duties growing all too strong.

She’s at the edge of the bed when she feels him move, and she freezes like a doe.

She glances over her shoulder and finds him now laying on his back, his head leaning to the side. The light and shadow emphasize the sharpness of his jaw, highlighting the scars sprinkled across his body, and reflecting the sheen in his raven-black hair. Elsa shakes her head as she hops off the bed, jabbing her feet into her slippers.

She hurries over to her vanity to fix her hair, the plait a near tangled mesh. She must’ve slept just as deeply judging from the imprints on her cheek.

She can see Michael’s reflection behind her own, moving to lay on his side now. Gods what was she thinking bringing him here with her?! Even in his sickened state he knew the issues that would arise should someone see them in her room – _together_!

Even if her reasons had been just, the picture it would paint . . .

At the time, it didn’t matter to her. She had practically barged her way into his rooms after smelling something burning. The sight she beheld still churns her stomach.

He was clenching the sheets until his knuckles were white, the claws of flames ripping and burning the sheets, blackening their edges, and permeating the room with the smell of burned cotton. He was sweating buckets and clenching his teeth so hard she thought he’d shatter them. Tossing and turning as if he was fighting some invisible force, trying to fight from screaming. And when he told her what the dream was about . . .

As he was sick into the toilet, so disgustingly thorough, she couldn’t help but pity him. Something just told her he wasn’t going to sleep on his own for the rest of the day.

Elsa sighs as she finishes her braid, tucking back her bangs and flattening any wrinkles in her skirt. Taking one last look at her reflection, seeing his sleeping form behind her, Elsa’s eyes drift to the snowflake necklace. Her hands reach up, clasping her fingers around it as kindly as if it were a robin’s egg.

Standing from the vanity, she folds her hands together, rubbing her fingers over her knuckles. She’ll have to tell the servants quickly before one of them stumbles into her room and finds him.

She heads for the door passing the bed, but then pauses with her hand on the handle. She turns back, though — just once. With a bite of her lip, she approaches the bed. Leaning down, she brushes her fingers through his hair, then grazes them along his cheek.

Suddenly there’s a knock on her door that as her clapping her hands over her mouth to keep from shrieking.

“Queen Elsa?”

Gods bless it, it’s Kai. Elsa only has seconds to calm her speeding heart as she makes for the door. In those seconds, the steward knocks again.

“Queen Elsa?”

Elsa yanks the door open, putting on her best smile despite her urge to snarl. “Hi, yes.” She clears her throat. “Good morning, Kai.”

“Oh, sorry to wake you ma’am.”

“No, no, no, no. You didn’t.” Elsa slips through the narrow opening and shuts the door behind her. “I’ve just – I’ve been up for hours. Did I miss anything?”

“Well, you weren’t in your office this morning, and no claimed to have seen you leave –”

_Good_

“I was wondering if everything was alright?”

“Oh yes, everything is fine. But, um” – Elsa clears her throat, her hands fiddling with the handle of her door. – “I have a bit of a situation . . .”

Kai raises his brows and Elsa sags her shoulders with a sigh.

“I have Michael sleeping my bed, right now.” Kai’s eyes widen, but she holds up a finger. “There was an incident last night and his bed got ruined. I’m just letting him sleep here until it is fixed.”

Suspicion still has the steward knitting his brows together. “Might I as,” he clears his throat, “what happened exactly?”

Elsa’s cheeks burn as she finally understands the meaning her words might’ve portrayed. Another aggravated sigh and she says, “He had a nightmare. And his magic manifested in a way that destroyed his sheets, possibly the mattress as well. He burned and sliced through them.”

Relief seems to flood the steward’s eyes, even as he tries to peek over her shoulder. As though he could see the man sleeping through her closed doors.

“So, just have some servants clean and remake his bed, even change the mattress if you have to. And he’ll be back in his own chambers.”

“If that is what you wish.” Kai says. Elsa pinches her lips at the mischief in his tone.

“It is!”

Kai bows. “Very well, Your Majesty.”

He takes his leave, but before he makes it four steps, Elsa calls, “Kai!” the steward turns around. “Is Anna awake?”

An understanding smile, and a breath of a laugh before he answers. “Of course not. But she was sleeping peacefully.”

Elsa sighs with a ghost of a smile, looking towards the grandfather clock which reads ten in the morning now. She’d been asleep with Michael for nearly four hours. The thought warms her core.

Shaking her head again, Elsa heaves a sigh and hurries off to Anna’s rooms.

Sure enough, Elsa knocks at least three times without any answer before slipping into her sister’s room. Anna is asleep on her bed, her hair a messy blanket of orange-gold across her pillow. A line of drool trails all the way to the back of her neck, a small puddle gathered under her cheek. Her mouth is parted as she delicately snores.

Elsa can’t help but chuckle as she leans on the edge of her sister’s bed. “Psst, Anna.” She whispers, gently shaking her sister’s shoulder.

Anna instantly slurps up the trail of drool, Elsa cringing at the disgusting sound. “Yeah?” she whispers.

“Good morning.” Elsa sings.

“Good . . . morning.” Anna musters with a drowsy slur. She rolls onto her back and smacks her lips a few times, her tongue making a small snapping sound as it breaks from the roof of her mouth. Her eyes slowly blink open, settling on Elsa.

She gives a pained smile. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m okay.” Anna rasps. “A little sore, but nothing compared to what it could’ve been.”

Elsa stands and walks over to the console table where there’s a pitcher and a couple of glasses on a silver tray. She pours Anna a glass before returning to the bed, her sister now sitting upright.

“What about Kristoff?” Elsa asks, climbing onto the bed, tucking her legs beneath her.

Anna takes a couple of heavy gulps before answering. “Same thing. A few scrapes and bruises, doctors assured me he doesn’t have a concussion. We just need to take it easy for a little bit.”

“How much do you need to take it easy?” Elsa asks. When Anna looks to her with confusion, Elsa cringes. “Your birthday party is in a couple of days.”

Safely encased in Anna’s fingers, she drops the cup into her lap with a heavy thump. “Oh, come on! I completely forgot about it! his whole trying-to-fight-for-our-lives thing is extremely exhausting.” She falls back against her pillow, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “Ugh, I don’t want to celebrate for once. I just want to sleep.”

“I wish we could, but it’s too late to reschedule now.”

“I _know_.” Anna drawls. “Maybe we can just cut the party time short.”

“I’m sure the villagers will understand. Besides, it would be nice to have something to celebrate with everything that’s been going on.”

“I guess.” Her sister says with a shrug. Elsa motions her to hand her the glass, to which she refills. As she’s in the middle of pouring, Anna asks, “How’s Michael?”

“Good. The blood loss will take time to recover from — him having lost so much of it that he’ll need to expend his energy on refilling its levels. With no magically endowed healer in Arendelle, it’s his only option. He seems to be doing good with his injuries, among other things.”

“As compared to what?”

Elsa slowly sets the pitcher down, holding the glass between her hands for a second. “I think Pabbie’s visions might’ve gotten to him.” Elsa mumbles quietly.

“How do you mean?” Anna asks, leaning forward in earnest.

Returning to the bed, Elsa hands her the glass. “He had a nightmare last night. Something about it must’ve riled his magic because he ended up burning and shredding the sheets, maybe even the comforter.” Anna’s eyes widen, resting the cup in her lap. “They were like, claws – claws of fire and ash. The tips of his fingers looked black.”

“Were you there?”

Elsa nods. “I was walking down the hall earlier this morning when I smelled something burning. I barged in and found him near writhing. So, I let him sleep in my room.”

“You what –?!”

Elsa holds out her palm to silence her sister. Perhaps it was a good thing she wasn’t about to take a sip. “It was only for a few of hours; and he’s still sleeping their now. At least until they fix his bed.”

“Elsa, are you crazy?!”

“No, I don’t think so. I was trying to help him. It was easier to have him stay with me than to wake the servants and explain to them what happened.”

Anna sits there, pouting. Her fingernails drum against the glass, looking out the window and into the kingdom. After a moment, her eyes flick back to Elsa. The queen thought she saw something like understanding flicker in her sister’s cerulean eyes. “You know what this could mean, if anyone finds out.”

“Not like they aren’t used to magic.”

“I meant about them finding Michael in your bed.”

“I’ve already told Kai what happened, and he’ll send a couple of people to fix his bed and that’s all. So long as no one else goes into my room, no one will ever know.”

“You sure seem okay with this.”

Elsa’s gaze turns downward, a faraway look glazing over her eyes. “Understand, Anna, that I’ve seen parts of Michael that you haven’t. And yesterday, that was only the beginning of what he may be capable of.”

Her sister physically shivers, taking a sip from her glass. After a souple of swigs, she mumbles quietly, “I don’t know how he does it.”

“Does what?”

“You know what I mean,” Anna snipes with a wave of her hand. “the whole battling, and the injuries, and the chaos all around. I’ve never seen anyone move like him; never seen anyone fight like that.”

“Not even Kristoff?”

“Kristoff is a mountain man. He always came across as, durable, to me. Gritty and sturdy. When I look at Michael, the way I’ve seen him fight those, demons, and those draugr . . .” Elsa could’ve sworn she heard her sister pinch the words as she speaks. “You can’t deny there’s something more that he’s not telling us.”

“Is this you not trusting him again?” Elsa asks, more concerned than annoyed.

“No. No, he’s long since proven that. It’s just – there’s something he’s not telling us.”

“He’s not obligated to. It’s his business.”

“I know that.” Anna grinds. “There’s just something about him seems, different. And I know you’ve seen it too. Or have at least had the thought.”

That she can’t deny. She thought it was just some, connection that all magic-wielders have to one another. Even if her magic hadn’t burrowed within him that night she healed him, there was something else that swirled behind those sapphire eyes. Something primal and unyielding.

“Maybe it’s the reason why he fears his magic.” She mutters. Anna blinks and finishes her second glass of water. Elsa pinches a piece of her skirt. “What is it about that, something that makes you nervous?”

Anna looks to her, her sister’s brows knitting together. “I’m worried it’s something he can’t control. I’m worried that if something goes wrong, he’ll really hurt himself, or . . . you.”

“Does this have to do with what Pabbie said?”

Anna shakes her head. “I don’t know, actually. It’s just a, feeling.”

Elsa stands and takes the glass to put back on the pitcher while Anna yawns with a long stretch.

As she heads for Anna’s closet, she’s surprised to hear her sister ask, “You really like him, don’t you?”

Elsa whirls around with wide eyes. She blinks at Anna, her sister now out of bed, still stretching.

“What do you mean?”

Anna turns to her with a conspirator’s grin. “Oh, don’t play coy, Elsa. I know you like him.”

Elsa bites her lip, her hand fiddling with the handle to Anna’s closet. “We may have created a friendship throughout his time here, but –”

“He’s been here for a little over a month, nearly two. It’s understandable if your guys develop a relationship.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Elsa suddenly snipes, whirling and throwing open the closet doors.

“Oh, don’t you?” Elsa clenches her teeth at the smile in Anna’s words. She begins to browse through Anna’s dresses until she feels her sister’s hand on her shoulder. Elsa rolls her eyes as she turns, until she finds her sister’s eyes soft – perhaps even glittering with love, excitement, and something else she can’t name. “Elsa, I love you more than anything; and I couldn’t be happier that you found someone.”

Sucking on a tooth, Elsa says, “I thought you didn’t like him.”

“That was before.” Anna says with a cringed smile. “After everything that’s happened . . . after the way you screamed when he –”

“Anna,” Elsa warns.

But her sister doesn’t back down, her lips pouting and even stomping her foot like she used to do when they were little. “Elsa, I have _never_ heard you scream like that before.” She folds her arms, a smile slowly creeping its way back onto her lips. “I think you like him more than even _you_ realize.”

“Even if I did, I doubt he would even accept it.”

“What –?”

“He’s from the countryside of his own kingdom, living on the outskirts of the city. And suddenly I’m just going to throw him into a life of a court and politics and constant documents? I can’t do that to him. I don’t know if he could handle it; let alone even want it.”

When she looks to Anna, the understanding etched on her sister’s delicate features is near heartbreaking.

Kristoff started off as a humble Ice Harvester, and he seemed more than open and ready to enter their royal lifestyle. In fact, he almost seemed to want it. Neither of the sisters ever asked where he was from, only going off of what he told Anna during their journey to find her. Considering his open mind when entering their lavish lifestyle, the sisters deemed such information unnecessary. Kristoff has since spent more time at the castle than the apartment they bought him a block from the castle.

After a moment of silence, Anna gives a gentle smile. “He may be more open than you think, Elsa.”

Elsa simply pretends to observe a couple of dresses in the princess’s closet. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if he feels the same way. So let’s just drop this, okay?”

Anna nods, lacing her fingers into Elsa’s. “Course.”

Elsa spares a smile before she runs her fingers through her hair. With a deep sighs, she suddenly says brightly, “How about you focus on what you’re going to wear to your birthday. The royal tailors are going to track you down like hounds if you miss one more fitting.” Elsa says with a pat on her sister’s shoulder.

The princess rolls her eyes and releases a dreadful whine. “Ugh, I’m too tired for this.”

“It’s a price of royalty.” Elsa giggles. “Come on, let’s have some breakfast and we begin our suffering together.”


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Hey guys. I want to apologize for not updating in a while. Spring Semester at school and my job have been really draining on me creatively, even when I manage to find time for myself. It feels so good to get back into writing. I've missed updating this story, and I'm sorry for keeping you guys waiting for so long! I appreciate your support and your patience!
> 
> Everyone stay safe!
> 
> KeshaRocks Xxx~

Despite what had transpired between him and Elsa, he hasn’t really heard much from her.

He’d awoken hours later after Elsa had left – the coolness of the sheets indicating she left to fulfill her queenly duties. He didn’t really see her for the rest of the day, and given she had no weapons in her room, Michael opted to return to his own suite at an hour of downtime for the servants. Upon returning to his rooms, his bed looked as if nothing had ever happened.

It disturbed him in a way, but as he slipped into the cradling stiffness and smell of the fresh linen hit his nose, he settled down for one of the best naps he’s had in years.

In all honesty, he doesn’t mind not seeing the queen – the memory of being so violently sick in front of her still warms his cheeks.

He’s towing a dangerous line.

And yet, he can’t seem to stay away from it.

He’d managed to stay on this side of it last night, even though her comfort and support had stirred him so bone deep it was like he’d found a part of him he hadn’t even realized was missing.

It was another reason he made his workouts so severe, not to punish himself, but because he can’t stop thinking about the way she’d looked at him.

Between small conversations with the servants who tended his room, he learned he might not see neither Elsa nor Anna since the princess’ birthday party is in a couple of days. Both women are going to be swamped with work and scheduling. With his condition still up in the air, he gives orders to the guards himself to watch over the royals if he is not able to attend.

Over the next couple of days, when he’s not pooling all his strength and magic into healing his pelvis, Michael spends the time training when he can, using whatever he can to exercise — chairs, the doorway, even billiards tables and cue sticks. A part of him feels bad for tricking Olaf into snatching the tools, but he’s near climbing the walls just lying in bed. The balls made for remarkable balance tools.

He made himself do all sorts of activities: walking on his hands, juggling blades . . . It’s not anything new, but it is unpleasant. Each exercise brought back memories of his first learning back at the rebel camps. And the pain in his hip slowly seemed to ebb bit by bit. He could now walk without that distinguishable sharpness stabbing its way up his side. The limp he experienced just from walking to the bathroom gone.

When he wakes up on the day of Anna’s birthday, all the pain seems to be gone. Fluttering his eyes open against the morning light leaking in through the draperies, Michael rolls over on his back and stretches his body to its full length. There are no aches, no sharp pains like this used to cause, and he even finds himself smiling with content at the beautiful summer morning.

Well, summer merging into fall – the past couple of days has been testy with its ever-changing temperatures.

Shifting under the down comforter, nestled on the fluffy pillows, Michael groans with pleasure as he stretches long, smiling at the complete coziness. The curtains to his windows have all been opened, his roaring fireplace alive with crackling logs. Sitting up, Michael looks to find a small breakfast banquet already set for him on the dining table.

He looks around the room smiling contently. He’s always loved the morning light – something in its purity as it signifies the start of a new day. The way the world seems to be calm just for these few small hours, when everything and everyone are relaxed with its warmth. He leans forward, resting his chin on his knees, his fingers clasped together around his ankles.

Michael just stares at the center of his room, watching the golden light shift as clouds roll by outside. He tosses of the sheets and pulls on a pair of loose trousers. He does several minutes of pacing before sitting down for breakfast, as an assurance that the pain won’t come back.

As true to word, he hasn’t seen Elsa or Anna those entire two days. The only silver lining is that no assassin or Lady of the Night has attempted anything either; which only makes more anxious for the princess’s birthday. It would be odd if they didn’t bother to try anything.

As he dumps a mountain of sugar into his porridge, Michael forces himself to go over everything that has transpired these past few weeks, and to look through the new doors that have opened on this investigation. Those workouts were intense for a reason: it didn’t grant him the strength to really look at the massive shift in this job.

Despite the knot in his stomach, Michael forces down a few scoops of porridge.

The group of _Inferno Assassins_ is just a bunch of bullshit. The group is nothing more than a collective puppet for that dark empress, whoever she is. She is the cause of all of this, at the center of everything.

Magic plays a bigger part of this investigation that any of them had thought. The demons, the runes, even the woman herself. He still hates how his skin crawls at the thought of that dark power she possesses. And worst of all, the power she awakened inside him.

His stomach tightens again, and Michael takes a few gulps of water. That roiling purr deep within him settles, the heat of his palms withering.

 _Easy_ , he thinks to it. _Healing, that’s all we’re doing_.

Magic is the biggest factor here – next to the woman, it is the root of everything. He barely put any research into the meaning of those runes other than the discovery of that secret room. Looking down the length of the table to his desk, his eyes immediately find that book containing the Northuldrian runes.

That will be his priority, for now. This is his only lead. Whoever that woman is, she knows the power of these runes, knows how to use them. If or any of the royals are going to stand a chance, he needs to understand them as well. But who in this entire kingdom knows Northuldrian? It doesn’t even sound like a language Danika would know.

At the thought of the rainbow-haired shapeshifter, Michael thumps his fist against the table. She sure is taking her sweet-ass time responding to his letter. He shouldn’t be surprised – she’s probably enjoying her life of retirement in wine and nightly lovers. Still, the thought of that wild woman makes him smile. Wait until she and Caiden find out he has magic of his own. She’ll probably wring his ass into next week.

Those runes also had something to do with his magic awakening – Michael distinctly remembering those circles of them that night at the temple.

Now he has to set down his spoon and take a deep breath. He leans back in his chair.

It was like he could feel invisible claws ripping their way through his skin, through his mind and everything that he was. Dark hands spearing their way into the recesses of his mind to find that kernel of magic he never knew he had. Healing wouldn’t have been much of a surprise – that was something he expected, but flames. _Fire_ magic.

It’s not a rarity by any means, but Michael had always thought of it as some kind of burning curse.

Fire is _alive_. It breathes. It grows. It will spread and destroy everything in its path if one does not have the will to control it.

Fire wielders had to be especially careful in regards of control; the constant practice and meditation he’s seen them go through – they could be up before dawn training, and still be the last ones to go to bed.

It forces those who are burdened with its care to walk a razor’s edge between humanity, and savagery.

Until eventually, they are torn apart – mentally, or literally. 

He’s always had this tingling feeling in his chest from the morning light ever since he was little – a feeling of excitement as he would leap out of bed and dance around his room in the sun’s golden rays; how he would look out his window and see the sunlight breaking through the boughs of trees and reflecting the dew on the grass and wild flowers of the meadow. Other days he would just lay in bed for those hours with his eyes closed – utterly content being cradled by its gentle fingers, feeling its touch along his cheek.

He never could explain why, other than it was something he had inherited from one of his parents. The purity in light being an embodiment of his mother’s spirit.

Despite himself, Michael’s heart falters a beat. He leans forward, resting his cheek against his knuckles, breathing in the breaded scent of the cooling porridge. His fingers entangle in his hair.

There was no other word that described his mother other than opalescent. 

From the jewelry that glittered against her skin, to the dresses she would wear . . . even to her magic.

Though his mother had never shown any signs of magic, Michael could’ve sworn there were times when he would see a shimmering halo about her head. In a blink it would be gone, a simple trick of the light, or a figment of his imagination. He could never forget the warmth of his mother’s hands; the way they cradled him, her stunning sea-green eyes holding same light as a morning sun. Both just as comforting, as soothing.

His father had been just as gentle, perhaps just as secretive too. But his father was a man of his word; he wouldn’t try to hide something as inevitable as magic in the family. He would be the person to try and train Michael if it were possible. The man was an open book – which only further confuses Michael when he thinks about why the king’s men had come to slaughter his family. His father would never hide any fact of him being part of a rebellion, especially if his family’s life is at risk.

Maybe if they had known, they could’ve done something to prevent it.

 _He_ could’ve done something to save them.

Michael takes a deep breath as resumes his breakfast.

He hadn’t really thought much about either of his parents since what happened; hadn’t let himself think about it. His last image of them before he had to run: the blood, the darkness, yet there was still love and fierce determination in his mother’s eyes as she told Michael she loved him, and to _run_.

Gods, what would his parents make of him now?

Michael can’t remember a time when he wanted to be something different – something other than a soldier who slices necks and hides in shadows. After he fled his homeland, after being strung up in chains and training and blood for years, his heart grew cold at the idea of helping people who were like those men – _are_ like the men he hunts for money. He kills adulterous nobles and corrupt politicians, he’s always been led to believe he’s doing his part in making the world better, not like the men who slaughter upon the word of a tyrant, or capture innocents and sell them for profit.

Michael always thought there was a difference, but no one ever confirmed it. Danika and Caiden agreed, assured he was different. But their opinion is biased. They too had their own struggles.

But what would his parents think?

A door to his mind is starting to open, starting to let the memories flood forth. Michael could’ve sworn the firelight became brighter.

They were an average family, living in the countryside of his long-forgotten kingdom. His father would leave early every morning to work inside the kingdom’s walls, his mother would tend to him and the house. Michael can still picture the little garden she tended to in the backyard. His father hunted as a side job, his kills always clean and usable.

Both his parents befriended everyone that they knew. There was not a single person who didn’t know who they were.

Yet it didn’t seem to help when his parents had been murdered; left to die and burn in hungry flames.

Blinking his sudden tear-lined eyes, Michael takes a deep breath and runs his hands through his hair.

Michael kept those memories – ones of light and laughter, and love – tucked into his heart, carried them with across kingdoms; a bright light for when the darkness became too much.

Over the next few years, Michael could almost feel his soul being tainted, growing with such darkness with every throat he swipes his blade across, every skin he peels apart, every intestine he leaves strung about the walls.

He could feel his light – one he shared with his parents – grow dimmer and dimmer until it had to retreat into that darkness just to maintain a kernel of what it was.

Michael can smile; he can go to the churches; he can donate all his earnings to charities and homeless shelters, and yet it won’t make a damn of a difference.

He is not their son anymore.

He can thank the gods for Danika and Caiden. They had become his friends, his support -especially when he didn’t realize he needed it most.

But they never became his new light once he had lost his own. They never filled that hole in his heart; even with such friendship, nothing ever became intimate with either. Through physical or emotional comfort.

Not that they’ve ever tried. It’s not what he needs anyway.

Their fire matched his own – kindled with rage and hatred for those who robbed them of their childhood.

None of them could ever seem to move on – even Danika with her many lovers and late nights at taverns and wild smile always seemed to be burying the memories she refused to face.

Caiden was never one to talk, and that’s why Michael liked him. they never wasted time trying to pour their hearts out to one another in an attempt of friendship, but more of a presence in a quiet comfort. He would be pouring over some papers while Michael read a book. Just a solid, but quiet presence.

Michael sighs as he hears the doors to his suite open up, and in steps a servant woman with a cart full of fresh bread and desserts. She looks over to the dining table, giving a pleasant smile as she approaches.

Michael nods to her before pushing the bowl of cold porridge aside, plucking a grape from

He might not have his own light anymore, but at least he’ll always have the light of a new day.

But the question still tickles the back of his mind, hauntingly whispering in the recesses of his mind; will he ever find a new light again?

* * *

Anna’s party has gone off without a hitch, for once. Next to decorating and organizing and buying gifts, Elsa was determined not to let another Snowgie ruin the celebration.

Her sister dances with Kristoff at the center of the courtyard, mingling in a throng of subjects. The sunflower in her hair glittering in the late afternoon sunlight. Clad in a gown of velvet green, the sleeves drop off her shoulders, ending in points at her fingers. Half of her hair is weaved up and around the ends of the sunflower, leaving the rest to cascade in a waterfall of curls over her shoulder. Embroidered flowers trail across the hemline of the skirt, twining up the bodice with Arendelle’s crest resting at the base of her chest.

As Elsa stands at the top of the steps before the front doors of the castle, she smiles as she adjusts the sleeve of her own dress, shivering from the breeze that tickles her bare shoulders. Today she is swathed in yards of periwinkle silk and a matching, chiffon shawl lined with silver lies relaxed around her elbows. Her hair is set in its usual braid, twined with pearls.

Before her, the nobility strut across the floor of the courtyard, gossiping, scheming, seducing. An orchestra plays minuets in a corner, and servants slip through the gathered nobles in a dance of their own as they refill and clear plates and cups and silverware.

Her decorative pillars of ice flank the dining tables, shimmering with opalescent colors. The fountains twinkle with floating sunflowers atop its surface – the plant represented in the center pieces, the tablecloths, and even the balloons scattered tastefully about the yard. Strung in between is a banner of Kristoff and Sven’s making, reading _Happy Birthday_ in sloppy but colorful painted letters.

Some nobles start dancing, weaving in and out among each other. Many are her age, but she somehow feels as if there exists a vast distance between them. She doesn’t feel older, nor does she feel any wiser, but rather she feels . . . She feels . . .

She feels as if there’s something inside her that doesn’t fit in with their merriment, with their willing ignorance of the world outside the castle. She doesn’t fit with the typical template of royalty. It goes beyond her title, or her magical ability. She had enjoyed their company early in her adolescence, but it had become apparent that she’s always be a step away.

The worst of it was that Anna nor Kristoff didn’t seem to notice how different she felt — even after years of acceptance from their subjects.

What unnerves her more is . . . she didn’t realize how immensely lonely she still felt until Michael had come.

To meet someone else who shared magical abilities such as hers . . .

“Elsa!” a voice suddenly calls.

She didn’t realize she had been looking down until her head snaps to attention. She giggles when she finds a pink colored Olaf dancing atop of Sven.

“Look, Elsa!” the little snowman says, “I’m a snow cone!”

Kristoff and Anna approach, color flushing her sister’s cheeks. She’s a giggling mess, the ends of her beau’s hair sticking to his forehead. Anna reaches out her hand, and Elsa takes it.

Giggling, her sister says, “This has been amazing, Elsa. You did great!”

Elsa matches her sister’s smile, unable to contain her own laugh. “I’m glad you’re having fun. But I think it’s time we cut the cake. Olaf’s been staring at it since it arrived.”

The two sisters lock arms and walk down the aisle towards the four-tiered ice cream cake. Its outer later a glittering turquoise with white frosting decorating its edges. The sisters nuzzle one another as they both catch a glimpse of the tiny ice figures standing at the stop of the cake.

Kai has just finished lighting the candles when the sisters approach, citizens and servants alike clapping and singing the princess a lovely birthday song. When finished, Anna blows out the candles with more merry clapping and cheers.

As the steward begins to cut and distribute the cake, the band resumes playing as Elsa and Anna walk back towards the castle front doors. Both prepare themselves as twin princes begins to approach them with gleaming smiles and matching attires.

But before they can utter a word, “Who is that?” breathes a young courtier beside them.

Elsa turns.

She can’t tell if it is a dream or reality until several heads, then many, turn to look. Though the waltz is playing, those not dancing quiet themselves as the mysterious, stunningly handsome man takes a step, then another. He walks down the courtyard aisle, Kai and the other servants having moved the cake out of his way, leaving nothing to disturb that swagger in his walk, his hands tucked in his pockets.

He might have his faults, but Michael never does anything half-heartedly. He’s outdone himself with that attire, seemingly unaware – or uncaring – of how spectacular he truly looks.

His jacket of thundercloud grey is fitted to his muscular form. The thick, braided ebony threads loop around matching black buttons, and trail along the cuffs and collar in detailed embroidery. The grey stems through to his pants, tucked into polished black boots.

But while the clothes were of fine make, it wasn’t what captured the attention of the many women and the attendants.

No, it’s the sculpted features of his face: the distinct cheekbones, the sharp jawline, and the sapphire blue of his eyes that rival the ocean. Were it not for those, Elsa would not have recognized Michael in such formal attire.

He looks only to her as he walks, a dangerous smile on his full lips, making Elsa feel warm to her core.

He is something out of a dream—a dream in which she was not a magical Snow Queen, but a woman. He reaches the bottom of the steps, and Elsa took a step forward. She stops hearing the crowd, and her mouth becoming dry as he stares at her.

Michael bows low. “Pardon my intrusion, Your Highness.” It’s a voice made for the bedroom. The words and tone flowing like liquid midnight with a gentle gruff.

The broad, muscled shoulders and powerful frame; the knowing smile; even his beautiful face radiated a sense of maleness that had her struggling to remember that he’d spoken to her directly.

She has to fight the conspirator’s smile creeping across her lips. Unlike some of the flashier and softer male court men, Michael’s apparel had always been more ruggedly masculine.

“But I’d hate to see a beautiful woman such as yourself be stuck standing around during this occasion.” His posture his perfect: one hand behind his back, the other flourishing before him. “If I may, it would give me the greatest pleasure if you would do me the honor of letting me lead you through just one dance.”

Elsa has to restrain herself from wrenching herself free from Anna. But her sister is already releasing her, stepping back to link arms with Kristoff. Elsa didn’t even see him approach.

“Yes,” she’s able to mutter.

She delicately lifts the skirt of her gown, but not above the ankle, and slowly descends the five steps to Michael’s outstretched hand. He bows to her upon taking it, Elsa offering a polite curtsey. His fingers are warm, making her cringe at her cold ones.

The crowd began chattering as Michael leads her from the steps. He guides her towards the center of the courtyard, all eyes upon them. She doesn’t fake, nor does she hide her smile now. The musicians begin a new number, the rhythm they keep is a steady one-two-three, one-two-three. Dancers turn like dervishes, bead-and-gemstone-encrusted skirts flaring out.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“Are you not glad to see me?” His hand slips to rest on her back, his fingers grazing her bare skin.

She snorts with a smile as they turn to face each other. “I thought you were busy healing.”

“A benefit of magic, I’ve come to find. Besides, you didn’t expect me to sit still, alone in my rooms while there was a celebration going on.”

“I didn’t know you cared.”

A shrug of those shoulders. “Who am I to pass up free food?” at the disapproving click of her tongue, he gives her a pitiful pout. “Not like I was going to get any sleep from this music anyway.”

Michael slides his other hand around her waist as she braces one of hers on his arm. She looks up at him when he begins to move—a slow step, then another, and another, easing into the steady rhythm of the waltz.

“I _am_ glad to see you here, by the way.” Elsa says quietly.

He spins her before she can utter another word, and they coil in a tight circle. The world blends into a mesh of chaos, color, and noise.

“I’m glad. I’m happy to be here.” Michael pulls her close, his lips brushing the outer shell of her ear. “You look beautiful,” he says quietly, running an eye over her in a way that makes her ears burn.

“Likewise.” There is such beauty in his face—and strength, and honor, and loyalty. Elsa clears her throat. “You do know the trouble you’ve now caused, don’t you? At Michael’s puzzled expression, she emphasizes, “Now the courtiers aren’t going to stop asking about you. They’ll want to know all the details.”

“What can I say? I wanted to see that creative mind of yours at work.” His grin never falters. “Do let me know what magnificent story you come up with, and the next time we meet, I’ll let you know where you went wrong.”

Elsa can’t stop the chuckle that breaks past her lips. He spins her out and in, never missing a step, as graceful as any swordplay she’s seen him demonstrate. She crashes flat against him and he spins her again. As they rotate about the floor, she can see more and more couples leaving the floor, giving them space.

He twirls her. The skirts of her gown sparkle underneath the disappearing sunlight. His mouth is a work of art, too, all sensual lines and softness that begged to be explored. She allows herself a moment of peace as she leans her head to the side, guiding Michael as he moves to spin her again, throwing her into revolution after revolution.

Smooth, never faltering, never breaking her stare.


	41. Chapter 41

He didn’t think he’d draw _that_ much attention at the party. He owes the royal tailor much credit – no doubt the man was overjoyed at getting Michael ready, making sure he stood out like a sore thumb, but in the best way possible.

Still, he felt inadequate compared to Elsa. She had always been charming to him, but this dress makes her seem ethereal.

Her dress is made of colors plucked from the twilight sky, and the whorls of ice sequin in her skirts glitter. The gown of periwinkle has wide skirts and a bodice encrusted with thousands of those minuscule sequins that remind Michael of the surface of the sea. Her hair remained in its familiar braid, only difference is the weaving of pearls about the plait.

When her eyes find his, he forgets about the runes, and the demons, and the party buzzing around them. The Midnight Beauty and her plans and the purring fire and the darkness withing him fade into nothing.

“Are you going to be watching everyone for the rest of the evening?” she asks.

His spine stiffens slightly but musters a smirk. “Can’t I enjoy a day off?”

“Oh, of course. I just didn’t know what your plan was.” He can see a hint of color flushing to her cheeks.

She truly must not know how beautiful she looks.

“You know, during my time as a soldier, crashing balls was a fine art of mine.”

Elsa’s following smile and giggle tugs at a string in his heart. Her body is warm beneath his hand, and her fingers are soft around his. He spins her and leads her about the floor, waltzing as smoothly as he can. She doesn’t falter a single step, nor does she seem to care about the many angry female faces that watch as dance after dance passed and they don’t switch partners.

Of course, it isn’t polite for a queen to dance with only one man, but it seems neither of them are able to focus on anything beyond the music that carries them onward. The music washes over them, building and falling, the melody mimicking itself, then starting over again.

“Everyone’s watching us,” she says. When did they last speak? It could have been ten minutes or an hour ago. The faces around them blur together.

“Don’t worry about them. Let it just be you and me, tonight.” A flash of what he could have sworn was longing shines in her eyes, but it’s gone before he can be certain of it.

He doesn’t know why, but seeing her makes him feel like a man.

The couples have since fled the dance floor, the two of them having carved their own little circle in the throng of revelers. He hopes Anna won’t mind him paying a quick visit to her party. He thinks he sees the princess with Kristoff over by the buffet table, gorging on some of that delicious looking ice cream cake.

In all regards, they all seem to be better after what had transpired. Perhaps the party would do everyone some good. A time for celebration; to enjoy something fun and exciting – and thankfully, most of the citizens of Arendelle seem to agree. Despite the sneering faces, most are helping themselves to food, conversing among one another, and clinking glasses of wine.

“I would assume the other royals didn’t appreciate your comings.” Elsa says.

Michael smiles. “None were ever as gracious as you, keep mind.”

“Were you ever allowed to just enjoy yourself at a gathering?” Michael spins Elsa, and she flow smoothly through the air before snapping back into his arms.

He sucks on a tooth. “No.”

“Never?”

“It was my own choice.” He says with a too-casual shrug. “I was so filled with hatred for the upper class that I viewed such gatherings with disgust. I hated everything about it. I hated the idea of getting dressed up and having to mingle among the people who couldn’t spare their time and money for the common man. And being a rebel soldier, I was always worried about getting too close.”

He twirls her before leading her into a promenade, some of the party revelers – likely the citizens and not the dignitaries – having joined in a group dance.

“What about now?” she asks quietly, the hush in her tone setting his skin tingling.

“When I actually take a step back, and look . . . your kingdom is the one of few that I’ve seen that stands for the good of many.”

“And our little gatherings?” she giggles with a flutter of her lashes.

He chuckles. “I supposed it has its charms.”

Another smile that sets her eyes glittering like her dress. “Then enjoy yourself to your heart’s content.”

He suddenly feels the urge to kiss her—hard—upon the mouth. But this—what he feels, it could never be real.

Because once the ball is over, she will go back to being a queen, and he will still be a mercenary. Michael swallows hard.

For tonight, though . . .

He holds her closer.

And then the music explodes around them, and Michael takes her with it, spinning her so that her skirts fan out around her. The periwinkle tint of the skirt reflecting blue in the fading light. He pulls her in for another spin, and Elsa giggles as he dips her down, his legs nearly swallowed by her skirts.

When he hoists her back up and releases her, she curtseys low as he holds his hand over his heart and bows at the waist.

All around them the goers clap, but the air is still as there are no words of encouragement, no bravos or smiles of awe. Just stiff clapping, but the queen and the assassin keep smiling at one another.

* * *

She’s lost—lost in a world of which she’s always dreamed. His hands feel so warm against her own, the evening light catches in his sapphire eyes, setting them shining. Some would argue that his thundercloud jacket matches her periwinkle dress.

When they finally found an ending to the orchestra’s number, it was a bittersweet feeling for Elsa; then again, when she finally did sit still, her feet were near numb from her heels. Michael too seemed more than happy to oblige for a break in the dancing. Still they didn’t part their ways.

Instead, she loops her arm through his and he guides her towards the tables holding leftover foods and some remaining water – thank the gods. They help themselves to several cups, both laughing at the other’s desperate gulping.

Throughout the evening they never left the other’s side, Michael would occasionally survey the party, watching for anyone to do anything suspicious. But apart from the occasional sneer from a visiting prince, or even a woman villager, there doesn’t seem to be anything worth nothing.

Elsa doesn’t know whether to be happy, or more concerned. Both of them seemed sure that something would happen tonight, but she won’t question it.

The party continues into the night, and Elsa and Michael manage to slip away through the front gates and to the bridge. They don’t cross, just stopping halfway to watch the sky bloom to life with many stars, and the rippling Northern Lights.

It feels good to rest her arms against the cold stone – and for once she’s grateful for her ice magic, if Michael’s sweaty forehead is any indication.

The two of them lean against the lip of the bridge, Michael forward on his elbows, crossing his ankles. Elsa pulls the periwinkle shawl close to her shoulders.

“There’s a nip in the air. Winter may be just around the corner.” He says as a mild wind whips past them.

“It’ll be nice to have you for Christmas.” She blurts before realizing.

Her blood roars through her ears, especially as he turns to her with a smile and an arced brow.

“I – I mean, that is, if you stay long enough for Christmas.”

“You guys don’t have many guests during the holidays?”

“We tried earlier on, but most of our citizens had holiday traditions of their own. And then thanks to Olaf getting lost, we have a sort of, new holiday tradition.”

“How does Olaf getting lost create a new tradition? What is it like, ‘Find the Olaf in the Snowstack?”

Elsa laughs. “It’s a long story. One for another night.” In the glow of the moon reflecting off of the ocean surface, his profile is illuminated.

Elsa turns to stare out at the open ocean again, blinking and clearing her throat. She stares at the passage between the two mountain sides leading out into an unknown world beyond.

“I hope you had fun tonight.” She says, this time not meeting his stare.

A moment of silence. “You know . . . I actually did. It was nice to put away the cloak and daggers for a bit. If only for a moment. And to not be at such celebration with the intent on killing someone.”

Elsa swallows past the tightness that seizes her throat. He had meant for it to be a joke, but . . .

“I’m sorry.” He says a heartbeat later. “It was nice to just enjoy myself. Forget about my problems.”

She traces a nail along the stone of the bridge. “Are you really an assassin?” she asks softly.

The smile fades. Now he looks out to the sea. “I never really thought of myself as one.” He lowers his head. “But, maybe I just wasn’t aware.”

Silence. He doesn’t look at her, just on the distant rippling instead.

“I had been so consumed with anger and hatred, I didn’t care what I did. So long as it helped me guarantee on getting that king’s head on a pike.”

The shift in his voice, the way it suddenly becomes laced with a deadly growl . . .

“But when looking back, a lot of things seem to line up. More than I care to admit.” He slides his eyes to her. His face almost looks bone white. But the look in his eyes . . .

Fear – fear is what lies in those pools of sapphire. So raw and undiluted it almost made him appear like a child. It cracked at Elsa’s heart.

The fear of what she’ll think of him now that he’s laid a bit of truth before her. The fear of losing whatever it is they share between them – what he shares with Anna and Kristoff. She dares to take a step closer to him, placing her hand atop of his. Her fingers bumping over his callus knuckles.

“You’re not a monster, Michael.”

A cold chuckle. “You haven’t seen all of me . . . And I pray to the gods that you never do.”

How many women had run from that part of him; female soldiers threatened by it, court women intimidated by it, and citizens fearing it? Elsa hates them all merely for putting the question in his eyes.

“You did what you had to do to survive. As did I. I know it probably pales in comparison, but –”

“No. No don’t ever say that. Everybody goes through something. We all have scars, Elsa. It’s just unfortunate that mine are more visible.”

“I hope they at least paid you well.”

“They did.” He says with a casual shrug. “But as you can imagine, commanders and fellow comrades aren’t very . . . forthcoming with many compliments.”

How long had it been since he felt cherished?

Did his parents have any idea that in the entire kingdom, in the entire world – despite having been raised through such hardships – there is no one more noble and loyal than him? That the boy they’d lost had become the sort of man that kings and queens could only dream of having serve in their courts?

The sort of man that she hadn’t believed existed, not after Hans, not after everything that had happened.

“You would make an amazing knight if you tried. Maybe even Captain.” She says.

He chuckles. “I don’t think so. Doesn’t really seem like my mind of thing.”

“You never know until you try.” She hums, giving a comforting smile.

Michael caresses her back, and she looks at him. Her heart jumps into a gallop, and all of her thoughts dissolve, like dew beneath the morning sun.

“I just want to say, I really appreciate you letting me stay at the party. You and Anna.” He says, his tone low and delightful sounding.

Elsa swallows. “Of course. It wouldn’t have felt the same without you – in uniform or not.”

Something like pain flashes in his eyes, but he blinks it away before she can be sure. “It just felt nice to actually feel, normal. Even if balls and dignitaries aren’t my first choosing . . . or the second . . . or the third,” She elbows him and he gives another skin-tingling smile, “it felt nice to just, enjoy the festivity. And I have you to thank for it.”

She giggles again, and Michael keeps staring at her.

He hasn’t once taken his eyes off her. Michael’s expression is full of—something. Joy? Wonder? His shoulders are straight, his back erect. He looks like a man. Like a king.

She should pay more attention — but . . . but . . . Oh, she wants Michael, she can’t deny it. She wants him.

Then, she doesn’t know what insane god possessed her to say this, but when she opens her mouth, “What will you do once your contract with us if fulfilled?”

Better than asking, _What would you do if you weren’t a soldier_?

He seems to understand this and ponders. “I’m not sure. I don’t think I’d ever find a place as nice as Arendelle. But I never really thought that far ahead for me. I’m not sure I’m ready to settle down. More out of habit than choice.” A long pause. He then turns downcast. “I’ve been running for so long I’ve forgotten what it’s like to just stop and look. To realize that that part of my life is over now.”

Only a few of his words register, hitting her like a punch to the face. _I’m not sure I’m ready to settle down_. Gone. He’ll be gone. “Where will you go?”

“I don’t know.” He says, “Anywhere, I suppose.”

She can hardly breathe, but she manages to say, “And what would you do?”

Michael shrugs, and both of them realize that she’s been gripping his hand. She eases her grip, but her fingers ache to grab his again, as though it would somehow keep him from leaving. “Live my life, I suppose. Live it the way I want to, for once. Learn how to be a normal man.”

“How far away?”

His sapphire eyes flicker. “I’d travel until I find a place where they’d never heard of war. If such a place exists.”

And he will never come back.

And because he is young, and so damn clever and amusing and wonderful, wherever he makes his home, there will be some woman who will fall in love with him and who will make him her husband, and that is the worst truth of all.

It had snuck up on her, this pain and terror and rage at the thought of anyone else with him. Every look, every word from him . . . She didn’t even know when it had started.

“You could live here,” she says quietly.

“What?” His brows narrow.

“Here. In Arendelle. You said you’ve never seen many other kingdoms like this.” His brows lift. “We can get you a nice apartment, or a townhouse in the upper districts. It’ll only be a short walk from the castle, we have plenty of open farmland –”

“Elsa, Elsa.” He grabs her by the shoulders. He spares her a brief chuckle. “I appreciate that. But I can’t take your money. Not like that.”

“The just save up with what we pay you here. We can go to the bank and open a new account for you.”

Gods, she’s starting to babble now. And it’s starting to make him uncomfortable.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why? I thought you were retired from the rebellion. And, you hadn’t really said much about anyone ‘looking’ for you.”

“It’s not that it’s just, this is a very flattering offer, and . . . I – I just” – she’s never heard him stutter before – “Let me think about it, okay? We still have a long way to go; a lot more things to figure out before I can even begin to decide on a life for myself.”

Her thoughts seem to finally catch up with her, and they clamp her mouth shut with an agreeing nod. “Right. You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“I really do appreciate it. Just, let me think about it.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

No doubt he catches the glimmer of pain and hope in her eyes, and before she knew what he was doing, he’s closed the distance between them, one hand on her waist and the other around her shoulder.

He pulls her against his chest, and she feels him rest his lips atop her head. He mutters against her ear. “Thank you, Elsa. Really.”

Rather than make things possibly worse, Elsa forces herself to clamp her mouth shut. She just closes her eyes as she rests her head against his chest, hearing the strong and loyal beating heart beneath as she feels the cradle of his warmth.

She tries to memorize it in the darkness of her closed eyes., out of fear she might never feel it again. Out of fear she might forget it.

When the clock chimes three and most of the guests—including Anna and Kristoff — had left, Michael finally decided that it was safe for him to leave. So they slipped from the ball, Michael taking the time to make sure she is safely inside.

The halls of the castle are silent as they strode to her room, Michael taking the empty servants’ passages to avoid any too-curious courtiers learning more about him. They’re relatively bare of any activity at this hour.

Whenever he slips out of the shadows, alternating from her left to her right, they would try to spare some kind of conversation – Elsa voicing her pity for any woman who ever tried to chase after him. Michael smiles to himself, running his fingers through his hair as they enter the hallway that leads to her rooms.

Elsa’s heart pounds, but she managed a coy smile as Michael bows to her, opens the door, and she steps inside. The servants have already taken to lighting the pink glazed sconces of her room, casting the colors into a pale rose-pink hue. No fire in the fireplace yet. Elsa folds her lips in as her eyes find Sir Jorgenbjorgen resting against her pillows. She resists the urge to hide the little penguin under said pillows.

She unfastens her confounded heels, tossing them into the dressing room across the way, and sighs as the cool wood meets her flushed skin. Behind her she can hear Michael chuckle and the unqueenly-like gesture.

“I’m impressed we got up here so quickly—and without a pack of court ladies hounding after you.” She says.

“Frankly, I’m hurt you don’t believe in my skills. I’ve outrun worse than a simple bug-eyed, wooden headed ninny.” Michael says as he leans against the threshold.

Elsa clicks her tongue. “Be nice. Some of them are good people.”

“Some. Not all.”

“I should’ve known only one ball wouldn’t be enough to change your mind of court ladies.” The queen says with a sigh.

“I’m not interested in court ladies,” he says thickly.

Elsa tries to swallow past her raging heart. Thank goodness for the dim lighting, otherwise the color on her cheeks would ruin her attempt at hiding her modesty. Still, she can’t bury the urge to fiddle with her braid.

She doesn’t know what to do. What is he waiting for? Her thoughts only make her more excited at the reminder that neither of them had any drinks at the parry. This isn’t some lustful night of passion – brought upon by a night of ecstasy.

This is . . . this is . . .

The burning words leave her mouth – both a question and a challenge – breaking past her lips. If only because she doesn’t know what else to say. She meanders her way over to the one of the glass balcony doors, further into her room. “So, what are you interested in?”

Michael approaches her slowly – each step lined with restrained power and grace – halting only a hand’s breath away. “I’ve slowly been trying to figure that out,” he says, and braces an arm against the glass beside her head. She raised her eyes, examining the black detail on the sleeve that falls just above her hair.

“And?” she mumbles, unable to look away.

His eyes dip down to her lips, her neck. His other hand reaches up and Elsa gasps when she feels the brush of his fingers against her collarbone.

The cold of the chain presses against the back of her neck, and Elsa watches as Michael lifts the charm of her necklace – the necklace _he_ gave her and hasn’t taken off since – and brings it to his lips.

Sapphire eyes blaze into her own, piercing down into her very soul. She can feel her nipples pebble under that stare. A mountain lion ready to pounce.

Michael goes preternaturally still. “And I think I’m interested in you.”

He brushes away a couple of stray hairs, lifts her chin, and kisses her.

His mouth is warm, and his lips are smooth, and Elsa loses all sense of time and place as she slowly kisses him back. He pulls away for a moment, looks into her eyes as they open, and kisses her again. It was different this time—deeper, full of need.

Her arms are heavy and light all at once, and the room twirls round and round. She can’t stop. She likes this—likes being kissed by him, likes the smell and the taste and the feel of him.

His arm slips around her waist and he holds her tightly to him as his lips move against hers. She puts a hand on his shoulder, her fingers digging into the muscle that lay beneath.

He removes his mouth from hers and smiles. It is infectious. Michael leans forward again, but she smoothly puts two fingers against his lips.

“I should go to bed,” she says. He raises his eyebrows. “Alone,” she adds.

He removes her fingers from his mouth. “I hope I didn’t overstep any boundary.”

“No,” she nearly sighs into his lips. “Never.”

There had never been any boundaries between them, only fear and pride. Because from the moment he stood there in the throne room, iron cuffs still around his ankles and he had set those eyes upon her, still fierce despite years in hell, she knew there was no stopping the bond forming between them.

He tries to kiss her, but she angles her head and his lips end nibbling on the soft skin of her neck. Elsa whimpers with pleasure as her hand presses against his chest. She clamps her thighs together – as if it will stop the throbbing beginning to torture her between them.

Still the slightest push she gives has Michael pulling back, but he doesn’t let her go. “What about you, Your Majesty?” he purrs in her ear. It sends her skin crawling with delight.

Think . . . words . . . answer . . .

“I think I’m interested in you.” She breathes.

Gods, the broadness of his shoulders hovering over her, the feeling of his large hands on her waist . . .

She forces herself to give him another gentle push, despite some innate female part of her screaming to pull him to the bed. He seems to understand both concepts as he takes her hand and guides her towards the doors to her room. He steps out while she stays inside. She peers into the hall, watching as he continues to smile. “Good night.”

Michael leans against the door, bringing his face close to hers. “Good night,” he whispers, and she didn’t stop him as he kisses her hand, and then her lips again. He breaks it off before she is ready, and she almost falls onto the ground as he removes his weight from the door. He laughs softly.

“Good night,” she says again, heat rushing to her face. Then he is gone.

Elsa strides to the balcony and flings open the three sets of doors, embracing the chill air. She can still feel her lips on his, smell the scent of his hair, and see the blue of his eyes flickering in the candlelight. Her hand rises to her lips and she stares up at the stars, feeling her heart grow, and grow, and grow.

* * *

He’d gone for a run around the kingdom before dawn.

For exercise . . . and to . . . clear his mind.

Certainly not because the effects of his kiss with the queen are still fresh in his mind. In his blood. 

Even if he’d gone to the ball for common reasons, he had had some fun dancing with Elsa. More than some, actually. The rush of having Elsa look only at him, talk only to him, treat him as if he were her equal and more hadn’t yet worn off. He nearly sprinted the entirety, almost vomited during the remaining trek.

Indeed the seasonal change is on the rise, as the cold nip from last night had transferred into early morning. He had to bundle up a little bit on his run – his eyes and nose stinging from the cold despite the rest of his body being warm with sweat. Once he crossed the bridge and through the front gates, Michael decides to take a scenic route back to his rooms. 

He cuts through the gardens to avoid any guards or servants that might’ve seen him walk into Elsa’s room – and didn’t see him walk out. despite that had happened, even when it had him soaring, he won’t risk her reputation because of mindless gossip.

Suddenly, he pauses as he sees a shadow move out of the corner of his eye, He stares up, and can’t stop smiling at the young woman’s balcony, watching as she waltzes alone, lost in her dreams.

She stops and stares upwards. Even from a distance, he can see the blush still upon her cheeks. She seems young—no, new. It made his feet light.

He watches, watches until she sighs and goes inside.


	42. Chapter 42

Elsa is still grinning to herself like a schoolgirl as she rolls over in bed. The morning light leaks through the crack in her curtains, glittering yellow and warming her face. She burrows beeper beneath her blankets as she rolls onto a cold spot on her bed. But her body has never felt warmer.

Her heart does twinge at the thought of what this means for them. She didn’t take him to bed – but it didn’t seem like he expected it. He seemed more than willing to follow whatever lead she chose.

Her heat flutters with her eyes as she bats them open.

He was willing to let her choose – and no matter what it would’ve been, he would respect it. If she told him to crawl into a hole and die, he would.

Gods no, she would never. But what is she to do with this confession? What does this make them? How badly will it interfere with the investigation, their lives – his life.

 _I’m not ready to settle down_.

Her heart sinks, but she can feel its little wings fluttering to keep afloat. He hadn’t _allowed_ himself to think that far – forced to feel like he’s on the run, unable to sleep in the same place twice. He said himself that he can’t seem to let that life go; to understand that no one is out to get him, at least, no one from his past . . . she would assume.

Gods, it’s starting to look more like a mess. The best thing for her to do is to go and see him. They need to talk this out – with what they confessed to each other last night, there’s no way he’ll turn her away.

Not that he would, she is the Queen.

Grinning to herself, Elsa tosses off the sheets and hurries to her dressing room.

Emerging about an hour later, Elsa smiles at herself; her thoughts at war with one another as she looks at her passing reflection in the hall mirror.

She had chosen a dress that matches Michael’s eyes – a deep azure blue of simple make, the silk fabric clinging her chest and hips, and the pointed sleeves tipped with a touch of her ice sequin for a little more sparkle.

She hated herself for acting like such a lovesick youth. Swooning over a man after a kiss – a rather steamy kiss, giggling to herself and rolling around in her bed with glee. She shouldn’t be acting like this – especially when she still has no idea what they even are – but at the same time, she can’t seem to help herself. She hasn’t stopped smiling since last night, even twirling around her room in her dress, waltzing with herself before her balcony.

Brushing a few strands of hair out of her face, Elsa’s hand goes to the snowflake pendant. She clasps her hand around it, feeling the warmth of the pendant seep into her fingertips.

She comes to the spiral staircase, sighing to herself at the thought of being buried in papers all day, but it would seem she doesn’t have to. As she reaches the end of the stairs, Elsa hears her name called from the opposite end of the hall.

Looking past the line of armor standees, she sees Kai hurrying towards her in a quickened walk. The expression on his face banishes all thoughts about Michael as he approaches with his hands folded in front, brows furrowed, and worry within his dirt brown eyes.

“Your Majesty,” he says, Elsa trying not to let her own fear show at the quiver in his tone.

“Kai? Is everything okay?” she asks as he reaches her.

“Well, I don’t know.” He swallows. “The guards just reported to me that there are two figures standing outside the front gates. They wish to see Michael.”

Elsa’s heart jumps to jackrabbit speed, her breathing following. Her fingertips touch the snowflake pendant once more, forcing herself to take two deep breaths.

“Alright, I’ll go and get him, and we’ll meet them at the front. Tell them we’ll be there shortly, but they _have_ to wait at the gate, if you haven’t already. If they even have a problem with that . . .” Elsa bites her lip. “Just, hold them off until we can get there.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Kai says with a bow.

As her steward heads back to the front, Elsa takes a deep breath and smooths the front of her dress. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she swiftly walks towards the direction of Michael’s room. At this point she could practically navigate the course blindfolded.

Who are these people?

They couldn’t be another assassin sent by that woman, could they? They would’ve destroyed the castle by now.

 _It still could be a trick_ , she thinks to herself. People like her are chock full of them. She probably has so many ideas, so many possibilities; and only Michael may be able to see right through them, to think ahead of her. She doesn’t know anything about this, she and Anna still barely have any training past the self-defense tactics he’d taught them. They’re not ready for something like this.

Her only hope is that she knew Michael has to be up at this hour. She’d caught him several times training in the front courtyard in the early hours of the morning. And with his pelvis seemingly healed, today would be no different.

She tries to catch her breath as the doors to his rooms come into view. The skirts of her dress whisper against the carpet as she increases her pace, clasping the snowflake pendant in her right hand.

All throughout her walk, she had felt a slight pull in her chest. Like someone had tied a string to her ribs. She could feel it pulling her, ushering her along like a will-o-the-wisp. It seems to snake into Michael’s rooms – a familiar warmth undulating freely like smoke on a bonfire. She gives the door two swift knocks before opening it, hearing Michael’s voice chime for her to come in.

Sure enough, Michael is already awake and training. Elsa marvels as she finds the assassin in a handstand, except his hands are gripping the arms of a chair, his body perfectly straight as a pin. Unwavering.

“Good morning, Michael.” Elsa says, unable to stop her smile.

“Good morning,” the assassin peeps, his voice sounding a little strained.

He wears a fitted tunic with the sleeves removed, revealing the definition of his arms –polished with sweat and rock hard with muscle. It tucks into his pants, which stop at his ankles. His toes remain perfectly pointed like any skilled dancer. Sweat glistens on his forehead in the ever-growing light of the dawn, a stream trailing down from his jaw to his left temple. The ends of his raven black hair tickle the cushion of the seat, some clinging to the nape of his neck and forehead.

It would’ve been a lovelier sight if his skin didn’t look so scarlet. “Maybe you should take a break.” Elsa croons. “You’re going to burst a vein.”

“I’ve had to hold this for longer.”

“When did you start?” Elsa asks as she approaches.

“Um, don’t remember. Blood rush has my memory fogged.”

“Stop that! Get down from there.”

“I’m fine.” He chuckles. A heartbeat of silence. “Are you okay?”

“Troubled,” Elsa admits. She fiddles with the end of her braid, resisting the urge to touch the pendant.

“What’s wrong?” Michael asks, refusing to break his hold. Elsa wonders how long he’s been like that.

Elsa can feel her cheeks warming, unwavering at the smell of perspiration. He must’ve been working out for over an hour by now. “Kai just spoke with me, he said there are two people waiting at the front of the gate.”

That causes Michael to descend from his handstand. In a slow, controlled movement, his legs lower and his feet plant on the carpet. He slowly uncurls his spine, allowing the blood to flow slickly from his head.

When he turns to her, the shift in his eyes is near frightening – glowing with concentrated anger and gravity, ready to protect her.

“Kai said they had asked for you. I didn’t want to see them without you. Just in case.”

“Understandable. Where’s Anna?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her; I’ve only just woken up.”

His eyes scan all up and down her body, lingering in certain places. She fiddles with her hands behind her back, trying her best not to shift her feet. Still she bites her lip as the corner of Michael’s mouth curls upwards in a smirk that would have – could have – broken many hearts.

She tries to ignore that little possibility as he gives gruff of a laugh. “You look quite dressed up for having just fallen out of bed.”

Elsa smooths the skirt of her dress again, doing her best at giving a coy smile. “I am a queen, after all. I have to look my best.”

Some shadow passes over his eyes for the briefest of seconds – something almost like pain, but she can’t be sure.

“You don’t need to try that hard.”

She can feel color flushing to her cheeks. She shakes her head and forces herself to lift her chin. “So, what do we do?”

“Let me get dressed and I’ll meet you down at the front door. Have you let them inside?”

“No, they’re outside the front gates.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you down at the front doors. Don’t let them in until I arrive.”

Elsa nods, taking her leave as Michael heads for the bathroom when she suddenly pauses. “You don’t think it’s someone from your past, do you?”

Michael, too, has paused, a hand on the knob to the bathroom door. “I didn’t. Until now.”

The queen cringes. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He says with a shake of his head, not even bothering to look back at her.

“It’ll be alright, Michael.” She doesn’t know what else to say, but she’s never been so sure on anything in her life before.

He’s quiet for a heartbeat, then says, “Thank you.”

If there was someone here trying to collect some kind of debt from him, Elsa will pay whatever it is. If someone is trying to come and claim him, she will protect him under asylum. She will do anything to keep him safe, anything to make sure the phantoms of his old life never show their faces to him again.

He has a chance at a normal life. A chance to be a normal man.

Nothing gets to be more important than that.

Elsa gives another nod before turning and heading for the door. Her hand just grasps the knob when he calls from behind her. “Hey.”

Elsa turns around, ready for more instructions. But as she faces him, she nearly yelps in surprise when Michael’s lips envelop her own.

But a second later her body melts into his touch as she feels his arms encircle her, invited themselves around her waist. He draws her in. Elsa’s heart crashes against the cage of her chest, beating against his. He pulls back too soon for her, her body near tipping like it did last night. It’s only for a few seconds, but it’s the best reprieve she’ll ever have.

That same breath of a laugh before he leans in and murmurs against the curve of her cheekbone. “Nice dress.”

A sound – she didn’t know what it could’ve been, a laugh, a sigh or a whimper – escapes her lips. This makes his smirk widen.

He pats the small of her back. “Head down to the gates. I’ll meet you there.”

“What about Anna? And Kristoff?”

Michael’s brows furrow as he contemplates. “If you want to bring them, that’s fine. It’s up to you.”

She folds her lips in, biting the bottom. “No. Not yet. It’s safer if she stays with Kristoff. Or, wherever she might be.”

He nods in agreement. With that, he takes his leave. Elsa swallows her whimper as his hand slips from her waist, heading back towards the bathroom. She can’t help but watch the muscles of his back expanding and contracting with every breath, rippling beneath the fabric of that tunic.

She snaps herself out of her trance and forces herself to turn and to leave his rooms. Entering back into the hall, she rubs her hands together as she makes her way towards the front door. Who are these people? What do they want?

She nearly tumbles when she feels a ghostly tendril connect to the well beneath the pit of her stomach. A common source of people with magic.

She can feel it – a separate thread reaching out. Towards the front gates.

Thought hesitant in her steps, Elsa still follows that pull – that ebb and flow in the world that some would call fate. She can feel her steps growing more confident as she pushes through the front doors, sparing a quick nod to Kai who must’ve been waiting for her. She spares the still terrified looking steward a nod; same to the guards as she crosses the courtyard.

The guard bows to her, his hand on his sword. Elsa nods to him, then nods at the two other men posted behind the large doors of the gates. The two of them only open the gates ajar, just wide enough for her to see and be seen, but narrow enough so that they can shut it at a moments notice.

She can’t see much, just a mesh of colors and a gleam of leather. Elsa takes a step closer as she motions the guards to open them wider.

The groaning hinges catches the attention of the two figures on the other side, snapping their heads towards the crevice. Elsa refuses to flinch, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders as the gates open wider.

Now her full figure is in view, but who she sees on the other side is not what she expected.

It’s a man and a woman – but . . . something seems off.

Both of them are tall; their powerful, muscled bodies covered in plated, dark leather that reminds Elsa of the worn scales of some serpentine beast. Identical long swords are each strapped down the column of their spines—the blades beautiful in their simplicity.

The woman of the two, lifts her brows in surprise, quickly shifting to a smile made for the bedroom. “Well, hello.”

Surprise sparks through Elsa, striking her dumb at the woman’s beauty.

She’s the most beautiful woman the queen has ever seen. Her body lithe and lean appears feminine and lush despite the muscles lining beneath her clothes. The curves of her chest and hips give her a smooth hourglass figure. Her wicked smile of impish mischief hides a promise of brutal death beneath.

Her hair is a glossy pale silver, lined with pastel colors of purple, pink, orange, red and everything in between. Her right side has three intricate braids – the plaits merging into the loose waves that fall past her shoulders. They give view to a snake tattoo that coils around her ear, its tail disappearing into the leaves of a bouquet of roses on the side of her neck. Where that tattoo ends Elsa can’t see as they both seep under the collar of her armor.

The woman surveys Elsa from head to foot, her rainbow-colored hair shifting with the movement. “So fancy. Did Michael make you dress up for us?” She winks at Elsa.

There is something hardened about her features—like she’d been made of wind and earth and flame and all these civilized trappings are little more than an inconvenience.

But it’s her eyes – the concentrated color of citrine – that has Elsa’s heart beating fast. The simple outlining of kohl almost makes them appear cat-like, and yet they burn with a ferocity of wildfire. Or insanity.

Elsa realizes her mouth is agape, and clamps it shut as she clears her throat. “Um, who are you?”

The woman folds her arms with a disapproving click of her tongue. The man behind her, ever the gallant knight, bows at the waist.

His face is more classically beautiful of the two . . . Even the light shies from the elegant planes of his face. With good reason. Beautiful, but near-unreadable. A face that would earn him more women in a month than some courtesans hope to gain in a year. A face that he might have used for both pleasure and deception.

Built like a battering ram, he keeps his attention solely on the quick, lethal movements of woman as she continues to stare at Elsa – as if she expected to be let in already. Tall and broad-shouldered, every inch of him is corded with muscle, blooded with power. More than a dozen weapons expertly concealed beneath his leather armor.

He’d be the one to look out for—the knife in the dark. Indeed, an obsidian knife is sheathed at his thigh, its dark scabbard embossed with a line of lightning gold.

Stone cold compared to the woman’s seemingly fiery temper.

But it’s not his pale skin or the shimmering gold of his hair that makes Elsa balk.

No, it’s the delicately pointed ears that poke through the hair. And the scarlet-red eyes that seem to swirl like smoke under stained-glass with some devastating power.

“Greetings, Your Majesty,” is all he says, his voice low, almost flat, as he extend a scarred hand to her.

Elsa has to bite her tongue to prevent herself from taking a hesitant step back.

She is so caught up in the two people standing before here, she didn’t even hear Michael approach from behind.

She does, however, hear the sigh of relief – and even a hint of excitement – in his voice as he near whispers over her shoulder.

“Danika?”


	43. Part II: The Wolf Pack

“Mikey!” The woman – Danika – squeals before she near shoves her way past Elsa.

Thankfully, Michael meets the woman at the threshold of the castle doors; Elsa didn’t even see him move.

She _does_ see Danika practically, of not literally, throw herself at Michael. Hard enough that when she crashes into him, a hard knob of air umphs out of him, even taking a half step back from the impact.

Still his arms wrap around her torso, hands resting just beneath her ribs as he embraces her; Danika’s arms wrapping around his neck in turn, her rainbow hair spilling over his shoulders. Elsa’s hands clench into fists as he hears Michael . . . chuckle?!

He lifts the woman enough that her toes barely touch the ground, his face buried in the crook of her neck. The way the silver and pastels mix with his raven-black hair sets Elsa on edge; she almost wants to pry them apart.

They finally relinquish, Michael placing the woman back on her feet and detangling himself as the man approaches. The two of them keep the greeting simple despite their wide smiles – simple gripping the others’ forearms and giving heavy claps on the back. They exchange some words, mumbling to one another, the smiles remaining all the while.

Danika is near bouncing on her toes, as eager as a schoolgirl ready for candy as Michael and the man part, going in for another tackling hug. “It’s so good to see you!” she exclaims.

Michael gives another chuckle. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

“What you didn’t think we’d show up?”

Michael smirks and shrugs as he says, “Well, I didn’t want to take time away from your busy days.”

Danika snorts. “Please, are you kidding me? Not like we ever really has busy lives to begin with.”

His expression changes in an instant. “Really? You guys never really settled down?”

“I tried,” Danika says, picking at her blue painted nails. “Didn’t really work for me. You know how it is – restless nights, the urge to do _something_.”

Something like understanding does flash in Michael’s eyes. It makes Elsa want to grind her teeth.

“I spend most of my nights drinking at the local taverns.”

Judging from the expressions on Michael’s and the man’s face, it’s not the answer either of them were looking for.

Then the man snaps, his voice smooth and cold – like shadow given form. “One would think you would shower in between your nightly visitors . . . or at least change the sheets.”

Danika responds by sticking out her tongue. “I think it motivates them. What better way to play on their little life competition than to try and get them to out-pleasure me than the guy before.” The red-eyed man rolls his eyes with disproval. “Myself, I kind of like that corn-chip smell. Although I’ll tell you, human or Fae, mortal or immortal, nothing can ever really prepare a person for the bedroom, except for practice and privacy. And curiosity, depending on where you venture.”

Elsa places a hand on her chest, baffled. She’d never known any woman to be so, casual, with their . . . involvements with men. At least, no one in her life.

“Sleeping around isn’t exactly going to get you anywhere in life. Neither will a life of mercenary work – legal or not.” The man says through grit teeth.

Danika argues, taking the verbal slap in stride. “Why bother? I meet a nice man, I marry him, we settle down, and then what? I’m left with nothing to do but cater to him and whatever children I pop out of my womb? I’m capable of so much more than that. Besides, the work is more a side benefit.”

“Well, regardless,” Michael says as he places a hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad you guys came, it’s great to have you.”

Feeling their conversations coming to a close, Elsa takes a timid step forward. She fiddles with her fingers as she approaches the trio, the red-eyed man spotting her first. He motions with a jerk of his chin, Michael turning around and finally remembering she was here. She tries not to let the sting show on her face.

He’s about to say something, when Anna’s voice chimes from behind them. “Guys?” she calls, “What’s going on?”

Her sister stops dead when she beholds the two people standing before Elsa and Michael. She even seems to pale, the freckles of her face becoming more distinct. To her horror, Olaf is waddling behind Kristoff, babbling on about something. But he too stops dead when he beholds the guests.

Friends . . . these are Michael’s friends.

Comrades, even.

In the back of her mind, she remembers him writing letters to two people, former rebel soldiers that were in the same unit as him.

Soldiers.

The word clangs through Elsa like the Yule Bell.

These people were _soldiers_. They’ve killed and robbed and fought and survived. Together.

But to see such, fierceness, in Danika, compared to the cold and contrived expression of that red-eyed male . . .

Like fire and stone . . . Like –

Suddenly Michael’s arm slides to the middle of Elsa’s back, and she flinches as he inches himself closer. It would seem the motion didn’t go unnoticed by the two rebels’ leering eyes. “I’m so sorry, I’m being rude.” He gestures to her. “This is Elsa, the Queen of Arendelle, and her sister, Princess Anna of Arendelle.”

This makes Elsa square her shoulders and life her chin. Again, the red-eyed male bows at the waist as Anna approaches, her face struck dumb just as Elsa at the extraordinary beauty shared between the two soldiers. _Former_ , soldiers. Danika simply lifts a well-groomed brow, even sparing a wink at the two sisters. Elsa tries to hide her bristling.

“Behind her, is Kristoff.” Michael continues, though he doesn’t mention what Kristoff is to Anna. “And that is Olaf.”

“Hi!” the little snowman chirps. “I like warm hugs!”

To Elsa’s surprise, neither of the two former soldiers seem at all surprised by little Olaf. A first for Elsa, but then again, with all of the stories Michael has told her reeling back in her mind, she’s no doubt they might’ve seen worse. Even more deadly.

“Well, nice to meet you.” Danika says with a wolf’s smile, extending out her hand. Indeed her nails come to points at the end, looking more like claws. The sun shines off of the black ink of her tattoos.

“Are you one of Michael’s friends?” Olaf asks as he shakes her hand.

“I don’t know,” Danika hums, dragging those stunning citrine eyes back to Michael. “are we?”

Michael chuckles again, his hand solid against her back, but Elsa shifts as it starts to burn. Not in the sense of heated flames . . . but the burning of cold. Of heat suddenly retracted from its source. Snuffed out. Guttered.

“It took you five years of fighting and four more of life adaptation to finally call us friends?” Danika continues, taking cornering steps towards Michael with her hands on her hips. The red-eyed man seems inclined to agree with that conspirator’s grin on his lips. “What, did you finally go to a confessional and they rung you dry through their bible thumping phrases of honesty?”

Michael snorts. “Please, like I’d ever go to a church. And you and I both know I could handle torture pretty well.”

Danika arcs a brow. “Maybe of the traditional sense.”

With a roll of his eyes Michael looks to Elsa and her sister. “Guys, these are my friends,” he drawls, making sure to look to Danika for her approval. “and former brother and sister in combat. My comrades, Danika, and Caiden.”

He finally points to the red-eyed male, who dips his chin. His features have been schooled into neutrality – bored, if not mildly irritated at the late introduction.

His crimson eyes are unlike anything she’s ever seen; a glimpse into the creature that she knew in her bones – in her magic – isn’t human. Or hasn’t been born that way.

The crimson in Caiden’s eyes seems to swirl like smoke under stained-glass.

Even with the demonstration of power she’s seen with Michael, he feels like a wisp of candleflame compared to the power thrumming from Caiden.

She could’ve sworn a wisp of shadow curled around Caiden’s ear.

“These are the friends you talked about. The ones you mailed those letters to.” Kristoff says as he approaches.

“Yeah.” Michael says with a nod.

Kristoff looks to both of them in amazement; enough so that Elsa wanted to slap him across the face; but judging from the way Anna’s knuckles are turning white, she’ll handle that herself. Then the thought occurs to Elsa –

“Do you both really have magic?” she suddenly asks. Even Michael peers down at her. She didn’t even notice him scoot close enough that their hips are touching.

Danika’s citrine cat eyes flick to Michael. They seem to gleam with mischief as she folds her arms. “So you _have_ been talking about us.”

“Well, you come with so little _good_ impressions I had to think of something.” Michael clarifies. Danika sticks her tongue out at him again, folding her arms in a childlike pout.

“Do you?” Kristoff urges. “Michael said you were both magic wielders.”

“Kristoff!” Anna snaps at him. “That’s rude. They’ve only just got here.”

“It’s fine.” Danika says with a wave of blue painted nails and an award-winning smile of white teeth.

Elsa then whispers with stomach-dropping surprise. “You’re the shapeshifter.”

Her stomach drops slightly as those cat-like eyes flick to her. Another wolfish smile. “I’m always eager to show off.”

Elsa thought she saw Michael and Caiden roll their eyes in unison.

Then Caiden says, “Danika also excels at pissing everyone off. Especially amongst our friends. So, as a friend of Michael . . . good luck.”

A friend of Michael – not his girlfriend, not his lover, not Snow Queen or even Queen of Arendelle. What does that make them?

Danika takes a few sauntering steps towards the middle of the courtyard, a sultry swing in her hips that Elsa almost admires. Her legs seem so powerful, each step lined with restrained, primal power.

She stops close to the epicenter, turning on her heels, sending her curtain of pastel waves flaring like a dancer’s skirt.

A soft flash of light, a ripple of color, and a hawk is flapping midair, beating for the nearest place to land. She settles on one of the spires of Elsa’s ice decorations covering the castle, clicking her beak. Both she and Anna and Kristoff and Olaf scan the clean cobblestones of the courtyard.

No sign of her clothes, her weapons. It had taken barely more than a few heartbeats.

All of them share expressions and sounds of awe, Olaf actually feeling around the stones as if he could find her clothes.

It was—incredible. Incredible to see the shift.

She gives a battle cry and swoops, talons slashing for Caiden’s eyes. He swipes with his muscled arm, his expression annoyed as he clicks his tongue. Danika banks with those red-feathered wings, making a large loop before plummeting back down towards the center of the courtyard.

Another ripple of light, the opalescent silhouette growing tall and lean, but when the light fades, it isn’t the rainbow-haired woman. Instead, it’s –

Elsa’s throat tightens. Anna gasps from behind her, along with more breaths of awe from Olaf and Kristoff.

Elsa had never noted her own features before, but . . . there they were. Her mouth gapes as she stares at her reflection – stares at herself.

“Wait, am I dreaming right now, or do I see two Elsa’s in font of me?” says Olaf.

Danika had shifted into _her_. From the blonde of her braid, right down to the ice sequin of her cobalt gown, safe for the generous curves of her hips and breasts. Those belonged to Danika.

But her face – it is her face. Danika had noted everything – the eyes, the clothes, the facial features . . .

Were it not for the shifter’s tattoo’s, Elsa doesn’t think anyone would know the difference. Including Michael.

It terrifies Elsa.

As if to taunt her, Danika turns in a circle with her arms spread. “What do you think, Queeny?”

Michael leans close to her and says, “Shifters were always feared and mistrusted. They were known as spies and thieves and assassins; able to demand any price for their services. The bane of courts across the world, so feared they had been hunted nearly to extinction.”

Danika only continues to hold that smile as she struts towards the group once more. Another flash of that light and the shifter’s features return to her own. Only this time her hair spills forth in a wash of blue fading into a fuchsia pink at the tips.

“Does it take a lot of effort?” Anna asks, sidling up to Elsa’s left. Michael still on her right, his hand still around her waist.

Danika shrugs. “Not anymore. Depending on who or what I shift into depends on how much of my power is drained.”

“Drained?” Anna asks.

“Remember the ‘well’ I mentioned for magic wielders?” Michael says, only more directed at Elsa. “That’s what she means. The larger and more complex the creature, the more magic they need to build up the mass required for the forms. Turning into a horse can cost more than turning into a bird.”

“But being an ass costs nothing for Danika, at least.” Caiden interjects. Danika throws him a sharp grin.

“Where do your clothes go?” Olaf asks.

“Between, somewhere. I don’t particularly care.”

“Shifters could become any variety of human or Fae as well as animals and beasts.” Michael continues. “Some shape-shifters are only able to change their human form rather than change into animals. Some are powerful enough to change into creatures long since extinct. Most shifters powers aren’t that strong – the more notable ones being that of Fae, but Danika had been an exception.”

Elsa blinks, ignoring the way Danika tosses her hair with a barbed giggle. The queen turns her attention to Caiden. “What about you, Caiden?”

The man folds his lips in, contemplating the right words. “My abilities are more, unique, Your Majesty; even for magic.”

“And even more rare.” Michael adds.

“To put it simply, my powers help me in the art of stealth and spying. I was raised in darkness and trained to blend into any sliver of darkness and listen.”

“Sounds a little gloomy.” Olaf says with a growing frown.

“Yeah, and his _only_ show of humor was when he snuck up on members of the camp and frightened them for fun.” Danika bites, as if a lot of those scares had been directed at her.

“Are you able to show us?” Anna asks, a little spark of interest in her eyes.

“So much for not being rude.” Kristoff mumbles, earning him a mixture between a glare and a pout.

Caiden sighs through his nose, bringing up his open palm. Everyone looks at it, then to him. He gives a small smile. He’s not as used to boasting as Danika, or perhaps maybe he’s just more modest.

When they look back to his hand, they gape in awe as they watch thin strands of shadow twirl and curl around Caiden’s palm. Completely out of thin air, the shadows crawl up his arm like living vines, his skin tone darkening under their blanket.

“The shadows cling to me. I travel in between them.” he mumbles.

Once the shadows reach his hair, it’s like they melt together. No – more like the shadows swallow the golden sheen, leaving only the blood-red of his eyes.

Elsa can’t imagine how unnerving that must’ve been for some unfortunate enemy soldiers to stumble upon.

Then just as fast, they vanish. His pale skin returning, seemingly brighter now. As though he sucked the power back within himself.

Incredible.

“Caiden is a rare breed of magic wielders. One not too often seen.” Michael says, finally dropping his arm from Elsa’s waist. She tries not to shiver in the cold of its absence. “And one that’s especially appreciated when on your side.”

Anna takes a single step closer, both Elsa and Kristoff reaching their hands out to stop her. Her eyes linger on Caiden . . . on the red of his eyes, and the delicately pointed ears that barely peak through his hair.

“What – are you?” her sister nearly whispers.

“Anna.” Elsa scolds, glaring at her sister. Michael almost inclined to do the same.

“That would be a story for another time, if I may be so bold, Your Highness.” Anna blinks, taking a timid step back with a small dip of her chin. “But to ease your curiosity – if only by slight – I am what people call, a cambion.”

 _Cambion_. Where has Elsa heard that word before?

But Anna blatantly asks, “What’s that?”

Caiden chuckles, a deep rumble that rattles Elsa’s bones. She’d been trying to ignore the way her own ice magic seems to run and hide at the presence of Caiden. While Danika is ferocious, something about Caiden – the piece he’s not telling them – has Elsa’s instincts and her magic roaring to run. To hide.

He’s dangerous.

Dangerous in the expected ways: tall, muscled, skilled in weaponry and war. But he’s dangerous for another reason entirely.

Not the handsome face, but those eyes . . . They have a way of assessing everything and everyone.

He tells Anna, “Brush up on your history and we’ll talk. Until then, my abilities have men known as a Shadow Weaver.”

Shadow Weaver. Yes—the title, whatever it means, seems to fit.

“Shadow Weavers,” Michael says, “are rare. Unlike shape-shifters – if not the exact opposite – they were coveted by courts and territories across the world for their stealth and enhanced senses; able to hear and feel things others can’t.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Says Anna.

Danika suddenly nudges Caiden out of the way, the man’s arms flaring slightly as he balances himself. Suddenly she is mere inches away from Elsa. The shifter places her hands on her hips and leans forward. “How the hell were _you_ able to freeze and entire kingdom when you look so thin your bones could snap at any moment?”

Well, that’s not something she ever expected to hear, not as queen.

She meets Danika’s gaze, if only because she’s been grinding her teeth so hard they’re probably worn. And maybe it makes her as mean as an adder, but she says, “How the hell did you manage to survive this long without anyone killing you?”

Danika tips back her head and laughs, a full, rich sound that bounces off the stones and wood of the castle. Michael’s brows flick up with approval; Caiden nodding in silent agreement as the shadows seem to wrap tighter around him. As if he were the dark hive from which they flew and returned.

Elsa tries not to shudder and faces Michael, hoping for an explanation about Caiden’s dark gifts. A wisp of shadow curls around Caiden’s ear, and his eyes snap to Elsa’s. She schools her face into bland innocence.

“So what’s the reason they’re here?” Anna asks, and Elsa could’ve hugged her sister for the change of topic.

Michael looks to the sisters, near stepping in front of the sisters. Almost blocking them from Caiden and Danika. “They’re knowledge of magic far exceeds mine. And with this new discovery of mine –”

“Which we are going to have a very long discussion about.” Danika interrupts.

Surprise sparks through Elsa, setting her lips moving. “You mean you never knew?”

When Danika’s features immediately become serious, it chills Elsa to her core. The shifter simply shakes her head. Something levels in her citrine stare – a gravity Elsa’s only known to be in the eyes of commanders.

Suddenly the thought of her being an elite soldier doesn’t seem to far out of reach.

“– I figured having them here would be beneficial. Not just for their knowledge and understanding of magic, but as extra security around the castle,” he looks to Elsa. When his expression shifts to worry, Elsa realizes she’s folded her arms, no doubt some kind of scowl on her face. “Not that they have to stay here. I understand if you don’t have room, or anything –”

“No.” Elsa suddenly blurts. “N-No, it’s fine. They can stay. We have plenty of room. It would be ridiculous not to have them. Especially with the long travel they’ve had.”

He steps closer to Elsa, lowering his voice. “Are you sure about this?”

Elsa shrugs, trying her best to appear coy. “Why not? They’re your friends.” She forces herself to straighten, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. Her spine feeling solid as steel. She peers around him, directing towards Danika and Caiden. “The style might be a little more rustic than what you’re used to . . .”

Danika snorts. “Are you kidding? We slept on hay cots lined with stiff animal pelts for the better part of our years. You give us a warm fire and soft mattress and you won’t even know we’re there! And it’ll be the first time we’re allowed into a castle of . . . any kind.”

Caiden’s cold face yields nothing. Silence falls between the three warriors. The tension and simmering anger of a unit who had endured so much, survived so much . . . and felt each other’s pain keenly.

Elsa straightens, taking the first step back into the castle. Slowly, like an ebbing wave, the group begins to follow. “Kai, our steward will show you to your rooms. You two must be hungry after such a long travel; lunch will be served at noon. We’ll send some servants to escort you.”

Without another word, she turns and heads inside, arms hugging herself as she goes . . . anywhere. Anywhere else but here.

She doesn’t look back to see if Michael follows.


	44. Chapter 44

Elsa had been more rigid than normal, especially around him. And Michael knew Danika’s and Caiden’s presence had unsettled her. As he watches her walk off, her arms grasping one another against the shimmering of her cobalt gown, he hears Danika hum behind him, “Spoken like a true Ice Queen.”

“Knock it off, Danika.” He sneers.

“What?” she asks with a shrug of her shoulders.

Michael turns his attention to Kai, whom had been waiting for them inside the castle doors. And who possible heard the entirety of the conversation. “Kai, once they’re settled show them to the library.” He looks to his friends. “I’ll meet you there in a few minutes. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Indeed we do.” Caiden says as he steps forward.

Thank the blessed gods that Anna steps in, her voice chipper and lyrical as any bard song. “Kristoff and I can show you to the library after Kai, if that’s alright.”

Michael gives her an appreciative, even grateful expression as he turns to leave the group. He tries to ignore the shadow weaver’s stare as he turns and hurries down the hall to catch up with Elsa. Judging from where she went, she didn’t seem to have a set destination.

“Elsa!” he calls. He doesn’t know why he’s hoping for an answer.

Digging through his heart, he finds that thin silver tether that is bounded between them. It pulls him down the hall; to the left, to the right. He barely keeps track of the turns like he’s used to, just blindly following that tether until . . .

She’d made quick work navigating throughout the first floor just to come back around to her office. Then again, maybe she just wanted to walk off whatever bother had her shoulders curving forward. Now here she is, in one of the castle’s many offices, presumably her favorite with the large, crosshatched window sitting behind the large oak desk, its soft ruby drapes pulled back to allow pouring sunlight. Shelves line the far-right wall, a grand fireplace on the left. A large ornate rug sits beneath the legs of the desk, stretching beneath a divan, a coffee table, and an armchair; all tastefully spread throughout the room.

Elsa stands by the window, arms still around herself, the light shining off of that stunning cobalt dress. Michael didn’t fail to notice how well it matched his eyes. She didn’t acknowledge him when he opened the door, so he doesn’t bother with pleasant greetings.

Instead, he shuts the door behind him, slowly approaching the queen. “You’re not happy.”

Thankfully, she doesn’t bother with pleasantries, either. Though it unnerves him more than he thought it would when she still doesn’t look at him. “Of course I’m not happy.”

Michael runs his fingers through his hair, advancing towards the desk. “Look, I’m sorry if their arrival was, sudden, but I told you they’ll be helpful with this investigation –”

“I don’t care about that.” Elsa says with suppressed venom. Enough so that Michael clamps his mouth shut. She looks to him, her one hand fiddling with the pendant. “I know their value for this, I know the benefit they would provide. I remember you saying how they could help me – help _us_ – control our magic. That’s fine.”

The bite in her tone says otherwise, but the surprise has Michael pausing for a heartbeat. “Then what is it?”

Elsa is silent for longer, her eyes scanning him from head to boot, lingering on his eyes, his lips. He can see her biting her tongue, biting her own words before she takes a deep breath and turns away. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s bullshit.”

He stops just before the desk.

“It’s nothing you should be concerned about.” She says, huddling further into her shoulders.

“Is it? Then why are you refusing to look at me?”

A heavy, annoyed sigh and the queen turns to him, sending the skirts of her dress flaring before snapping around her legs. She might’ve been prepared to chew his head off; she might’ve been ready to tell him the kiss last night might’ve been a mistake.

But what she isn’t ready for, is him to be standing right in front of her – as evident by the gasp that escapes her, the widening of her eyes. Towering over her, the two of them are close enough to share air. Her cheeks immediately flush pink, and he can’t hide his satisfied grin.

He tucks his hands in his pockets, if only to keep them from wrapping around her waist. “Listen,” he begins, “Last night . . . I’m sorry if I was too forward with you.” He pauses. “Elsa, you’re grimacing.”

“Er—sorry.”

Phlegm catches in the back of his throat, and he takes a half step back. He could’ve sworn she stepped forward. “It did upset you, then.”

“What did?”

“The kiss!”

Elsa folds her lips in and clears her throat. Her braid falls behind her shoulder. “No! It – it was lovely,” she stammers. “I didn’t mind it. But I didn’t hate it, if that’s what you’re thinking!”

The way her mouth thins into a line, he knew she immediately regretted saying it.

“So, you liked it?” He grins lazily.

At his little taunt, she places a brazen hand on his chest. “Even if I did, it doesn’t seem to matter.”

“Come now,” he says. “From your reaction, one would think you’d never been kissed.”

At the slight push of her hand, he steps out of her to let her pass. The lip of the desk presses into his upper thighs. He perches just on the edge.

She says, “And so what if I hadn’t? Being trapped in my room for nearly twenty-one years gave me little interaction, you know.”

“And that’s my fault . . . how?”

“I never said it was, I just – Oh, go away!”

She made to walk away, but male pride aside, he wasn’t going to let her walk out of her upset. He snatched her wrist and she stopped. She still looked to him with a pout he found more adorable than threatening. “Just tell me what’s wrong. We’ve come to far along for you to just lie to me.”

Something in that sentence softens her features. Michael keeping his own expression doleful as he watches her muscles relax. She blinks a few times, those black, fanning lashes shield her eyes as she looks down at his hand on her wrist.

“You and Danika seem to have a very, intimate relationship.” She mutters, not meeting his gaze.

“Yes, we do,” he says with a click of his tongue. He brushes his knuckles under her chin, angling her to look at him. “But it’s only because she guarded my back all those years we were fighting in the war. We were part of an elite unit of soldiers; we went on a lot of missions together. But nothing ever came from it.”

“Your reaction said otherwise.”

“I haven’t seen her in over four years. I did my best to keep in contact with her, but with the both of us traveling, constantly . . .” He clicked his tongue, his grip on my chin tightening. “Look, Danika and I are nothing. We’re just friends. Closer than I’d like to admit, but friends.”

Her eyes flicker beneath her lashes, and he thinks she’s looking at the scar on the back of his hand. As he goes to withdraw, she surprises him when she slides his hand along her waist, pulling the other to follow.

Michael stiffens, refusing to let his body melt into hers, if only because her eyes are still looking at his hands, trailing her fingers along his wrists, up his forearm. He bites back the urge to pull out of her touch when they bump along the many scars that adorn his skin.

His thumb, however, curves around the outside of her hip, gave a slow, long stroke as if to say, _Sorry_.

She finally asks, her lower lip trembling. “So, what are we?”

He almost wants to chuckle, but with a puzzling expression, he admits, “I don’t know.” Though not the answer she was looking for, judging from the droop in her shoulders, he adds, “I enjoyed our kiss last night too. But I don’t know what that makes us. I wanted to leave the choice up to you; because you’re a queen, and I’m . . . I’m just some country peasant.”

“Michael –”

“I never wanted to push you into anything you didn’t want to do. I wanted you to make the choice. Mostly because I know I have nothing to offer.” Dejected, he lowers his gaze, his eyes fixating on a spot on the wooden floor. “I have no dowery, no real money, not even a home to call my own. What could I possibly offer you that some prince can give a thousand times over?”

Elsa brushes her body against his, barely more than a whisper of a touch, but it still makes him stiffen. Still makes his pupils expand to nearly devour their sapphire color. Her hands slide up his arms to rest on his shoulders, pressing him further into his perch on the edge of the desk.

As gentle as a flower petal, Elsa’s hands cradle his face. Her eyes bore into his own, the cyan color swimming with want – with need. She whispers, her voice low and alluring. “You’ve already given me so much more, Michael.”

He doesn’t know which one of them moves first, but then Elsa’s mouth is on his, and the queen grips his shirt, pulling him closer, claiming him as he claimed her.

His arms wrap tighter around her, but gently—so careful as if she’d disintegrate into snowflakes. He brushes his tongue against hers, and she opens her mouth to him. Each movement of their lips is a whisper of what is to come once they manage to find time for themselves, and a promise.

The kiss is slow—thorough. As if they have all the time in the world.

* * *

The kiss obliterates her.

It was like coming home or being born or suddenly finding an entire half of herself that had been missing.

It’s not like the way he kissed her at the ball.

No – this is a claiming. He is hers, as she is his.

His lips are hot and soft against hers—still tentative, and after a moment, he pulls back far enough to look into her eyes. She trembles with the need to touch him everywhere at once, to feel him touching her everywhere at once.

He has given her so much more than either of them realizes. The laughs, the training, the _freedom_. Their small discussions they’ve had in private, where they each revealed a piece of each other to lay bare – unafraid of being judged, knowing it’ll be met with understanding.

She twines her arms around his neck, her mouth meeting his in a second kiss that knocks the world out from under her.

The taste of him threatened to destroy her, consume her, and—

She places a hand on his chest – over his heart – a heart burning with a fiery passion.

Fire – he is fire made flesh.

His hand slides higher up her thigh, the proprietary touch of a male who knew he owned her body and soul.

He parts their lips if only to bring his mouth near her ear. And damn her to hell, she leans further into him as his teeth press down at the same moment his thumb drift high on the side of her thigh, sweeping across sensitive skin in a long, luxurious touch. Her body goes loose and tight, and her breathing . . . damn her again, the scent of him, the pine and the sea, the power roiling off him . . . Elsa’s breathing hitched a bit.

She knew he noticed; knew he felt that shift in her.

His fingers still on the curve of her bum. A dull roaring is filling her ears, drowning out everything but that touch on the outside of her leg. This time, his nose brushes the spot between her neck and shoulder, followed by a passing graze of his mouth.

Elsa can feel her breasts tightened, becoming full and heavy, aching—aching like what is now pooling in her core. Heat filled her face, her blood. She seizes his mouth again, the drive to feel his all over her body, to lick her tongue over every inch of him, and him licking every inch of _her_ almost rushing her movements.

Rushed, and yet slow and methodic, memorizing every curve of that beautiful mouth.

A melodic, erotic, hypnotic kind of dance.

His fingers continue their slow, steady stroking on her thighs, rising higher with every pass. She drags a hand down his thigh, feeling the hidden warrior’s strength there. Drags it back up again in a long, idle stroke, needing to touch him, feel him.

His hands tighten on her, finally seizing her ass and pulling her close enough she nearly ended up in his lap. His eyes hold hers as he leans forward to brush his mouth against her cheek. Elsa leans a bit more against him, her legs widening ever so slightly; fully prepared to straddle his powerful thighs. Fully ready to let him have her on this oak desk.

Gods, if his hands just move a little inwards –

If that other hand drifts dangerously south –

Michael drags his mouth along the base of her neck, right over collarbone, just as she shifts against the hardness pushing into her, insistent and dominating.

But then he pulls away too soon, his grip on her hips tightening, but to pull her away this time. Even as she nearly whimpers to kiss him again – the sound no different than a whining puppy – Michael leans back just out of her reach.

Her eyes had been closed the whole time, and when she blinks them open, she clamps her lips together when she sees a thin shade of her lipstick smeared across his own. She giggles and leans back, but still keeps herself entangled in his arms.

“I promised I’d meet Caiden and Danika at the library. I need to brush them up on what’s happening.”

Elsa nearly groans in annoyance, unable to hide her pout.

“Hey,” he growls with a smile, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. “At least it’ll be easy for _you_.”

He gives a gentle push, enough for her to step back and see the start of something poking through the seat of his trousers.

It nearly made Elsa’s mouth water.

“Besides, I’m sure you have more important, queenly things to do today. And I’m worried I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

Elsa tries to speak, but her mind still isn’t able to form words. Proper words. Words that make sense.

Only the reminder of what is happening, why Danika and Caiden are here slowly brings her back towards the surface of reality. Not to mention lunch is in a couple of hours.

“Will I see you tonight?”

“If that is what Her Majesty desires.” He grins, his tone low and sultry. It’s by no means an insult, far from it in fact – different from the way Danika called her, “Queeny.” Instead, it’s a challenge, a ploy to get her to break her mold. The power with which she holds over him.

It makes her grin. “I expect to see you back at your chambers by midnight.”

“Midnight?”

She saunters around, attempting to put an extra swing in her hips like Danika. She pulls him from his perch on the edge of the desk and towards the front. “Anna wants to try and play a new game. A way of family bonding, I think she said.”

“Speaking of which, good luck telling her what we are now.”

Elsa gives a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’ll figure something out.

Michael chuckles as his hands rest on her waist. “Do inform me when you do.” he chuckles. “What’s this game called?”

“Charades.”

He snorts. At least he’s heard of it. The smile it brings to his face, the way it makes her heart soar – she twines her arms around his neck once more and pulls him in. When their lips meet again, it is soft and slow – despite the twitch of a touch she feels press into her front. She wonders if he could feel or sense the wetness that lays just beneath the suddenly-too-thick fabric of the dress.

“So, midnight?” he says with an arched brow. That grin remaining.

Elsa meets with her own, feeling like a fiend. “Midnight.”


	45. Chapter 45

He had to leave first, since Elsa did have some documents to attend to in the office. However, it took several minutes of pacing and painful pinches to calm the seat of his pants. A quick wipe of his mouth on his shirt erased the smears of Elsa’s lipstick. The last thing he needs is Danika giving him shit about his business with the queen.

He at least had some common sense left to stop by his rooms to grab all the books and journals and notes he’s collected so far on this case. Maybe by explaining it to them, it’ll make more sense in his head.

As he meanders his way into the library, he chuckles when he finds his companions have more than made themselves at home. Danika lays sprawled across the couch – Michael biting back his comment about her boots being propped on the curled arm – and Caiden has already started his raid on the many books lining the shelves, thumbing through what looks like a historical tome of Arendelle’s first settlers. His shadows seem to have retreated back into himself for now, while Danika has resorted back to her most notable rainbow pastel hair.

The servants seemed to have already brought them a couple trays of sweets and another for tea, Danika having already snagged anything that was drizzled or dipped in chocolate, leaving Caiden only fruits and vanilla pastries. Somehow Danika seemed to convince – or intimidate – the servants into giving her some wine, as she swirls the red liquid around the cup, the color contrast to her blue painted nails.

Both of their heads turn at his entrance, the shifter lifting her glass in welcome. “I think our first impression went over really well.” she hums with a smile as she shifts her feet down, Caiden clapping the book shut. He tucks it under his arms instead of returning it to the shelf.

Michael spares her a smug smile. “More or less. At least you made Caiden looks like the safest person to talk to.” 

Danika pokes her tongue out at him before taking a swig of her wine. After a pleased click of her tongue, she drawls, “Well, Princess Anna seems like a sweetheart. Cute as a button even if a bit unsteady on her own feet.”

Michael rolls his eyes despite Caiden’s nod in agreement. “Her boyfriend, Kristoff, seems to have a solid head on his shoulders. It’s almost amusing to see how he practically melts at the sight of the princess.”

“Even more so that the kingdom is okay with her courting an Ice Harvester.”

“This kingdom is different.” Michael interjects shaper than he intended. “They’re good people.”

“Oh, absolutely!” Danika chirps. “Not too often you see something like _that_ go over well. I give Queeny credit.”

“Her name is Elsa, and they are sisters. Not like she can say no to Anna.”

“She did,” Caiden snickers. “that’s how she froze the kingdom in the first place.” When Michael looks to him baffled, the shadow weaver grins. “I did some research before we arrived.”

Of course he did.

“So,” Danika drawls, “seems like you’ve had quite an adventure in your spare time.”

Caiden throws her warning glare, but Michael places a hand on the shadow weaver’s shoulder. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“How about when you arrived at Arendelle?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, or, maybe even simpler. I don’t even know at this point.” Michael walks over and plops himself down on the couch next to Danika while Caiden drags an armchair to sit across from them before taking a seat. He plucks one of the strawberries from the tray. Michael drags his fingers through his hair. “What I thought started out as a simple case of tracking down assassins turns into something much deeper than that. Including some crazed, beautiful woman with seemingly dark powers who used magical runes to awaken my own sort of magic inside me.”

“How did this all start?” Caiden asks, resting an ankle on his knee.

Michael decides to tell them the original reason why he was called to Arendelle, about the Inferno Assassins and their alleged threats to Elsa and Anna. He tells them about the murder where he first found the odd symbols and runes written at the scene in blood. He pulled out the sheets of paper where he first copied what he saw, then his attempts at trying to cross-reference it with other runes he’s seen among the rebels. This he hands to Caiden, the shadow weaver’s eyes already inspecting the papers, the cogs in his mind turning.

He continues to tell them about the demon attacks around the kingdom, in the castle. particularly about the one at the Suitor’s Ball, where he chased it down to that temple ruins, or if it even was a temple.

There he tells them about the Midnight Beauty, the Lady of the Night – the names constantly changing as there’s no real way to describe her, or her powers. He tells them about the runes he was able to see and remember that night, how they awoken something within him that he didn’t even know he had – sparing the barrage of questions Danika.

In his letter, he barely mentioned beyond its discovery of healing and fire. But here, he tells them about the fire he started, how Elsa put it out, how it had a radius he didn’t dare measure.

He tells them about the affects the Midnight Beauty’s darkness had on him, what it dragged him through. He saw some things in there he didn’t even tell Elsa. And from the way Danika pales, he feels he made the right decision.

He keeps bringing up the runes, the trolls and Pabbie’s visions . . . the dreams he’s been having ever since. The dragur that had attacked them and, who thankfully, haven’t attacked since. But it is something he needs to remind the guards about.

He talks about the way the fire feels like it has a mind of its own, a little whisper in the far back of his mind, the other eruption he had in the fjord.

By the time he’s finished, both of his companions’ expressions have turned severe, even Danika’s usual wicked smile is not gone, her citrine eyes lined with razor sharp focus. It was one of the few things that helped remind Michael just how she climbed up the ranks to become an elite.

Caiden is the first to ask, “Have you tried any exercises since your first discovery?”

Michael snorts. “What exercises. I barely remember anything from the training camps beyond basic weaponry and combat. Anything related to magic I just blocked.”

“But you were aware of the healing abilities?” Danika asks softly. It’s more disturbing than her usual lyrical tone.

“I was, but I wasn’t aware of who it came from. I never really bothered to ask my parents, as it seemed, unnecessary.”

“I guess it still doesn’t really matter now. All we can really do is help you learn to control it.” says Caiden.

“I really appreciate it. And I’m sure Elsa would appreciate it too if either of you were to help her control her magic. I’ve already gotten her, and her sister started in basic combat training. Unfortunately, with the many inconveniences we’ve had, we’ve been slacking.”

“We can worry about that later.” Danika assures with a hand on his shoulder.

Caiden nods in agreement. “Is there anything else?”

Michael shakes his head. “Not really. So it would seem the only problems are the runes, that woman, and my magic. As those are the roots of our problem.”

“How many languages have you referred to when researching the runes?” The shadow weaver asks, thumbing through the notes, his red eyes focused on every stroke of the ink.

“All that I’m aware of. I’ve even brought it to the trolls, and they think it would be something from another culture. But I feel like I’ve run my sources dry.”

Caiden nods again. “I’ll look through them again, see if anything comes up. Your original reference leaves many options open.”

“I trust you.”

Apart from being the stop stealth soldier among the rebels, Caiden was also the most educated. He enjoyed researching – through book or by shadow – and often served as a source of information for many of the commanding officers.

“Any idea where we should start?” Danika asks, propping her boots up on the coffee table.

Michael is quick to swipe them off as he replies, “While Caiden researches the runes, maybe we can find out more about that woman. What she is, and where she got her power from.”

The shifter nods in agreement. She folds her lips in, a contemplating thought snaking through her mind. As Michael is about to ask what she wants, she asks, “What was the power like? When she had you trapped?”

Michael swallows past the lump in his throat. “I told you, she dragged me through my memories – and not the pleasant ones.”

“That’s what she did, but what did it feel like?”

Honestly, if he could forget about it, he would. Having to remember still makes his stomach churn. “It felt . . . it felt like a worm was trying to burrow into my mind. A tapping, then a razor-­sharp slicing against my mind—as if she were trying to cleave open my skull and peer inside.”

“What do you think she wants?” Danika sets down her glass, still half full, as she turns to face Michael.

“She had said . . . when I’m ready, to come and find her.”

“A peace offering?” suggests the shadow weaver, to which Danika snickers.

“Yes, that’s why she keeps sending demons after the royal family.”

Another warning glare from Caiden, and Michael asks, “Could it be another form of your abilities?”

The question itself feels stupid to ask, especially when Caiden’s shadows are nowhere near comparable to that woman’s darkness. His shadows didn’t feel as thick, as suffocating – they didn’t feel as intrusive as that woman’s.

Caiden contemplates, sucking on a tooth. “I cannot say for sure. I’ve never heard of there being different types of shadow weavers, but times have changed since our war, perhaps they’ve given birth to a new generation of magic wielders.” He sets the papers on the table and reaches for a strawberry. “I already have assumptions of this being some kind of dark magic at play.”

Michael’s stomach sinks, and Danika pales, her blink is her only sign of surprise. “Dark magic? But that art is forbidden. Who in the world would be insane enough to even consider using it?”

“It was illegal in _our_ kingdom. Who knows if anyone in Arendelle even know what it is. That it even exists.”

A chill that has nothing to do with the autumn chill outside spreads goose bumps across Michael’s skin.

Much of the craft is unknown, which is where the root of the fear comes from. There are so few texts about Dark Magic, resulting in even fewer understandings as to what it is, and what falls under its category. Some are rather obvious: necromancy, curses and hexes, dark summons, and certain aspects of witchcraft, but even with some exceptions being legal like oracles, seances, and readings of bones, palms, cards, the dangers and the steep prices of Dark Magic overall is what made it illegal.

No one even really knows what Dark Magic even looks like. It’s not as simple as elemental magic, or healing. Although he has heard whispers of some who have the ability to teleport from one place to another, as simple as walking from room to room. Some, like Caiden, with the ability to walk with the shadows, hiding in the thinnest slivers of it. And the worst – although the rarest – are people who have the ability to enter and control a person’s mind, even without them realizing it.

Another cold shiver.

Most people simplify it as the Dark Lord’s power – many priests and priestesses using it as a reason to further persuade people to come to the goddess’s temple to be blessed and protected. Even going as far as to bring their religious thumping to the streets, offering on-the-spot cleansings. It’s also why some people feared him when would walk down the streets in his black leather, even tracing some symbols in the air to ward off whatever evil they thought he was.

“Have you spoken to the Queen about it?”

Michael blinks, realizing Caiden is talking to him. He clears his throat. “Oh, no. I wanted to wait until we had a better understanding. And even then, I was hoping it would be better than this.”

“It’s still just an assumption, Michael. But a very strong one at that. Especially with these runes being there with almost every demon you’ve encountered.”

There are so many real-world creatures that could’ve done those poor citizens: vampires, wraiths, wights, ghouls. But then there’s the other worldly creatures that dwell within the shadows of Dark Magic. Creatures so vile and vicious that they became the reason there had to _be_ a Dark Lord to begin with. Someone whom the demons and creatures feared enough to stay in line.

Unfortunately, they soon became tools for whatever means His Royal Darkness could think of.

With Dark Magic, anything is possible, and even possibilities are endless.

“Have there been any changes in the behavior of the citizens?”

A shake of Michael’s head. “Not that I’ve seen.”

Caiden gives a contemplative nod. “Have there been any patterns with the murders or summoning’s?”

Another shake of his head. “Why do you ask?”

“There have been discussions in the past of certain, affects, Dark Magic has; not only on its user, but to those around it. I believe it depends on the skill of the wielder, but proximity to the uncontrolled magic can literally inspire acts of rage in the hearts of those gripped by fear and anger. It could be another break we need.”

“Find were most of the crime takes place, and we potentially can find the wielder?” Michael asks.

“It’s no guarantee but it is something. Anything relatively noticeable about the murders?”

“The age range varies; most of them don’t even have magic.”

“Something to keep an eye on.” Caiden says with a shrug. “Eventually a pattern could form that will allow us to pinpoint her exact location.”

“So, for now we wait.” Danika says petulantly. She slouches back into the pillows of the couch, crossing her arms.

“Unfortunately.” Caiden agrees.

“And what do we do about the woman?” she asks.

“I’ve been thinking about that, and I’m not too happy about it.” Michael sighs.

Danika arcs a brow while Caiden leans back into the armchair.

“She had told me to see her when I'm ready. Maybe she has some answers she wants to share.”

“It could be a trap.” The shifter states.

“That much if obvious. But it’s also our only lead. We’ll just have to chance it. It’ll also mean we have to stay five steps ahead.” Michael says. “But it’s clear she wants something from me. Likely it has something to do with my magic. If she knew how to awaken it, she might know its origin.”

“Are you sure you want to risk something like that?” Caiden asks with a lift of a brow.

“I’ve been through worse. And as long as I’ve got you guys, I’m not too worried.”

“Oh you flatter us so?” Danika says with a beaming smile.

After a moment of silence, Michael says, “I really am glad you guys are here. I was beginning to get a little overwhelmed with all of this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Danika says with a wave of her hand. “We’re here for you. You know that.”

A dip of Caiden’s chin. “Always.”

Suffocating silence. Michael leans forward, lacing his fingers between his knees. He can almost see the claws of fire that appeared that night he vomited in front of Elsa.

“How – How did you guys take control?” he asks too quietly.

An exchange of expression between the two wielders. Then Caiden is the one who says, “By admitting something no one wants to face: that we are different.”

Not the answer he was expecting from the shadow weaver, and yet, his chest seems to lighten.

Danika seems to agree with a gentle smile on her face. One not too often seen, and one that makes her appear softer – more feminine. “Don’t fret it, Michael. Embrace it. The way I see it, fait dealt you wining cards; if you know how to play it right.”

A breath of a laugh. “It’s funny. Suddenly nothing seems to make sense anymore. I don’t even know myself at all anymore.” He turns his hands over, his palm facing up. His eyes follow the many lines that spiderweb across his palms, next to the scars. “I’m afraid to see what she might know about me that I don’t.”

“It’s not so much about you, Michael, as it is your magic. Learn to make it yours, Michael. Once you own it, nothing can own you.” Danika says with a wink. She finishes her wine before asking, “So what’s our next move?”

“I figured we might as well try to contact her. She didn’t give me much information, but I would assume the place she’d want to meet is at that old temple. It’s a little ways outside of the kingdom walls.” Michael says, helping himself to a blueberry muffin.

“What about the sisters?” Caiden asks.

“Elsa has some meetings and papers to attend to, and then later she and the family are going to play some charades. We should be fine.”

Danika snorts. “Charades?”

“Hey, they want to spend some time together.” Michael defends as he flicks her in the temple. She bats his hand away with a grumble. “We can leave after dinner, tonight.”

“Oh, thank goodness! Because you know I really wanted to go shopping and buy something fabulous from the marketplace.” Danika chirps as she pours herself another glass. “But have you seen the price of fabulous these days?”

Caiden snickers. “Please, you can’t even afford wonderful.”

Danika gives beaming smile as her hand lifts to deliver a vulgar gesture, the blue of her nails winking in the light. In an instant, it’s gone and suddenly she’s bouncing in her seat. “Oh, this is so exciting!” She sings. “It’ll be just like old times!”

“Yeah,” both Michael and Caiden mumble in agreement. The two look to each other at their mirrored lack of enthusiasm.

And either Danika was oblivious to the growing tautness between the two, or just ignoring it, either way, Michael could’ve kissed her for attempt at deflation. “What, you two afraid you’ve gotten rusty?”

A mild diversion, if a poor one. Because Caiden grins, if half-heartedly. “No rust on me.”

“I’ve been keeping up with myself.” Michael adds.

And then he sees the shadow weaver shift in his seat. “You know, far be it from me to judge someone’s life, but what were you doing to kill a day before this job came along?”

Michael shrugs in an attempt to ignore his raging heart, even if Caiden could hear it with that immortal hearing. Still, he’ll be damned if he lets Caiden catch the change in his scent. “I’ve just been traveling, mostly. Seen many amazing kingdoms in my life.”

“And what about before then?” Caiden asks, the pressure of the question settling on Michael’s shoulders.

He attempts to keep them square, that bottle of wine looking very tempting now. “I’ve been doing what I always do.”

“I see.” Caiden responds flatly.

“Okay, knock it off you two.” Danika interjects, leveling a dangerous glare at the shadow weaver. “This isn’t the time for that. Deal with your own problems at your own time, not while we’re _welcomed_ guests in a royal’s castle.”

Caiden meets her stare, and Michael can see something swirl behind those crimson eyes.

When Danika ever looked at someone like that, the two of them knew all hell was about to break loose, and even Caiden knew better than to mess with her when that expression rested upon her normally beautiful features.

He did once . . . and thankfully, it was enough.

By the blessing of the gods, Caiden slouches back into his chair. “Fine. I’ll see what I can dig up about the runes; though the family’s library leaves little to be desired.”

Danika, pleased with herself, hums her pride as she shrugs her shoulders. “Guess that leaves you and me to scope out the temple.”

“I appreciate it,” Michael says as he stands. “I’ll see you at lunch. You two should clean up. You smell like a pig stye.”

The shadow weaver folds his lips into a thin line, Danika pulling a section of her hair forward to smell it.

And gods bless Danika, as he feels Caiden’s eyes burn a hole into his skull, he opens the doors to the library and hears the shifter whine behind him, “I told you we should’ve stopped at that inn before we came here!”


	46. Chapter 46

Michael did his best to clean himself up. Unlike Elsa, he didn’t even shower when Danika and Caiden arrived. Given she found him in the middle of a training exercise with some of her words being two mysterious people were at the front gates, Michael grabbed only a small handful of daggers – which he expertly concealed beneath his attire – before near sprinting down the steps to meet Elsa at the gates. He’s relieved yet strangely surprised neither the queen, nor Danika had said anything about his smell. Especially with the latter having enhanced senses.

It only made him double the amount of soap he used to scrub his skin and his scalp near pink. There was only so much he could do with his hair; a good brushing beyond towel drying it. He did, however, pick a nice silver colored tunic, tucking it into charcoal pants and boots. The grey color reminds him of that lovely gown Elsa wore at the suitor’s ball.

Oh gods, how is he going to tell her about his new idea?

She knows better than to stop him; likely she won’t, but it’s more about whether or not she’ll try to invite herself to come along. After what she’d said, after what they _did_ in that office, going alone with Danika might grind her nerves. Enough so she night just blurt out about the two of them right at the table.

Which does raise the next question of what they are.

As Michael finishes adjusting his attire and doing his best with his hair, he sits down on the edge of his bed – lunch being in half an hour.

They are definitely courting one another, and yet it doesn’t really seem like their together. There’s still a certain kind of friendship between them; of course, that could just be because he still hasn’t fully processed that he’s kissed the Queen of Arendelle – _twice_.

The word clangs through him, a heavy reminder of where these choices could lead.

Queen.

She is a queen.

And while it would be a tremendous story – a lonely peasant mercenary finding love in royalty – is he really ready to accept that kind of responsibility? That kind of title?

The idea makes his stomach tighten.

During his time in the rebellion, he never really thought much about being a leader. Then again he never really thought much about anything other than killing the king who slaughtered his family.

True he was assigned as a high-ranked soldier; true he was paired with Danika and Caiden in a small elite team, but fighting alongside them, each of their roles were defined. They never really needed to talk.

And when he looks deep into his heart, past the grief-stricken boy and through the layered darkness stained with blood, he’s afraid at the truth he finds.

He never desired being a leader. Never cared for it.

Doesn’t really want it.

Would the people of Arendelle even accept him?

This is a conversation to be had with Kristoff. If Arendelle’s citizens are accepting of a princess courting an Ice Harvester, perhaps a rebel soldier might not be so bad.

Kristoff must be aware of the bearing weight of the crown. How it will rest upon his shoulders – true it won’t be for a matter of years, but still. He seemed more than accepting of its responsibility, as was Anna when they agreed to court.

Michael sighs as he gets to his feet and heads for the door. Perhaps he can have the conversation with Kristoff in private; at least, once it’s made clear what it is he and Elsa really share.

As he opens the door, he startles a young servant woman who looked like she was about to knock. She squeaks like a mouse, jumping back a step as she beholds him. Michael raising his brows in surprise in response.

She places a hand on her chest. “Oh, forgive me, Sir Michael. But I was sent to retrieve you for lunch.”

Michael nods his head as he steps out of his room. “Thank you.”

As he shuts the door behind him, the servant woman nods her head, a slight bow of sorts, before taking her leave. He half expected her to guide him towards the dining room, but instead continues down her original path in the hallway.

Somehow, he finds himself wondering what Danika and Caiden will wear to the lunch. He’d been lucky enough that the castle tailor crafted him plenty of shirts and pants ahead of time – courtesy of Kai as the steward had planned on hiring him months in advance. Though he contemplated giving the tailor their measurements, he wasn’t even really sure if they would’ve responded. Let alone show up armed to the teeth.

And beyond the embarrassment of Danika raiding the royal closet, Caiden might not think twice when considering wearing his armor to dinner. Michael groans in the anticipated annoyance. Or perhaps both of them actually thought ahead and packed their things accordingly.

One can only hope.

The smell of the feast wafts into his nose as he descends the stairs. The dining room is off to the left, the doors having been propped open, so the smell only grows stronger as he reaches the end of the stairs. He finds Danika and Caiden standing outside; waiting for him, if the shifter’s smile was any indication.

Dressed in a slimming gown of darkest plum, there’s no jewelry to be seen, her hair swept up and unadorned as well. Though, with her stunning beauty and the multiple colors in her hair, she needs no ornamentation.

And it would seem Caiden took it upon himself to visit the royal tailor. And Michael had to give the man credit: he managed to scrape together a simple but elegant attire for the shadow weaver within the small amount of hours.

Caiden wears a formfitting black jacket that shows off those powerful shoulders, the silver accents that offset his hair, the beauty and elegance of the clothes make an enthralling compliment to his eyes.

“You look good.” Michael says as he meets them at the bottom of the stairs. “It really brings out your eyes.” Caiden doesn’t say anything, simply an incline of his chin in greeting. “But you know it’s nothing too formal. It’s just us.”

“I don’t do anything half-assed.” Danika says as she smooths her hands over her hips, her smile near serpentine.

Caiden inclines his head in agreement. Michael rolls his eyes as he motions them into the dining room. Peering inside, he’s surprised to see they’re the first ones to arrive. However, the table is already set. The feast before him covers every inch of the table. The billowing steam intermingle with one another, various birds and fish sprawled on platters of porcelain. Drizzled in sauces of spice and cheese and vinegar, the seasonings give color to look like a master painter’s art. The chandelier above them is fashioned in swirls of stars. A roaring fireplace sits on one side of the table, but Michael can feel its warmth.

Danika hums as she plops into a chair near the end of the table and pours herself a glass of wine. Caiden takes a seat across from her, wiggling his fingers for the wine bottle. Michael pinches the bridge of his nose as he sighs with displeasure. He runs his fingers through his hair as he decides his seat. Sitting next to Caiden’s left is the safest bet, leaving the third open for Elsa, and maybe Kristoff would be a decent buffer between Anna and Danika.

No more than a minute after he’s claimed his seat, the trio’s heads turn as they hear Olaf’s giggle from down the hall. He manages to narrow in on the two muffled footsteps, the sisters appearing in the doorway with Kristoff in tow.

Anna has wrapped her hair up in a knot at the crown of her head, her dress a lovely opaque teal cinched at the waist by a gold band at her waist. The hemline of the skirt is embroidered with prints of silver and purple, cut just above her ankles, draping longer behind her in a small train.

She spares everyone a timid wave and a forced smile as she rounds to find her spot at the table. As if she were the guest in her own castle. Olaf waddles behind her, Kristoff bringing up the rear. Elsa steps aside to let the trio go ahead, her hands folded at her front, her back straight as a steel rod.

Michael blinks when their eyes meet, a small smile playing on his lips. She looked ravishing in this new dress. Having changed out of the cobalt blue, she now wears a pale color that is a frustratingly perfect mix of periwinkle and lilac. The colors so close that different angles change which is more prominent.

It clings to every curve and hollow before draping to the floor and pooling like liquid starlight. The long sleeves are tight, coming to points like all her others. The neckline grazes her collarbones, her skin like ivory. Her hair has been swept off her face with two combs of silver and diamond, then left to drape down her back. He’s seen her with her hair down before, but somehow this style seems so much more enchanting.

So much so that he has to bite his tongue and grip his chair to keep from standing and planting a kiss on those coral painted lips.

With the burning weight of his attention on her, she continues towards her seat, exposing the back – or rather her _own_ back, since the fabric of the dress dips so low to reveal the twin indentations in her lower back. And that she isn’t wearing a corset underneath, either.

Her skin has a soft glow, and he can’t fight the dryness of his throat when he sees those little dimples. Placed as if a god had pressed his fingers into her skin.

She looks over her shoulder in time to see his eyes slide south . . . and linger.

Slowly, his gaze lifts to hers. And he could’ve sworn that hunger – ravenous hunger – flickers within. He can’t stop staring.

Caiden bows to the queen, if only because no one else bothered to stand upon her arrival. Danika follows after, but only after Caiden delivers a swift kick to the woman’s shin. Despite her years of training, she can’t hide the grimace, and Michael can’t hide his fiendish smile.

To his surprise but immense pleasure, she takes the seat next to him; and as expected, Kristoff sits next to Danika, and Anna next to him.

At the head of the table, giggling with that never ending joy, is little Olaf.

And Michael could’ve hugged the snowman for starting a conversation. “Oh, it is so nice to finally have some company! The castle has never felt this full before!” he says as he folds his hands in front, swaying from side to side.

Anna nods in agreement. “It does feel nice to have a full table.” Despite the softened tone, she looks between Danika and Caiden. “We don’t host many guests that often.”

Danika gives a wave of her hand, having already picked up her fork. She first aims for the plate of chicken. “We don’t get invited to many dinners. Believe me, the honor is all ours.”

Caiden at least looks to Elsa for unspoken permission, and after a dip of her chin, he too begins filling his plate full, starting the train of dishes floating about the table; passing wine, gravy boats, new plates, and seasonings.

Elsa quietly joins them; her smile seemingly genuine despite having said no words so far. So as she passes Michael a plate of lamb, he places his hand on her thigh. To the queen’s credit, she hides her flinch, but her lips still fold in.

“You look incredible.” he says quietly, his voice steady.

“Thank you. You look . . . handsome, as well.” she stumbles. He spares her a smile. He also gives a comforting rub on her thigh, gently grasping her knee when her attention flicks to Danika – and he saw something gutter in the queen’s stunning eyes.

Across from him, Kristoff seemed to note the look too as she leans out and says, “You guys clean up well.”

A cocoon of silence seems to pulse around Caiden, even as the others dug into their food. Danika spares a nod, lifting her glass of wine towards the Ice Master. “It’s not too often we get to dress up.”

She then lifts her brows at Caiden’s plate, which is already half empty. “I’ve got to say, I’m impressed. You’ve really improved since we first met, Caiden.” She unceremoniously jabs her fork into a piece of chicken on his plate before stuffing it into her mouth before he can protest.

He huffs through his nose. “Wish I could say the same for you. You haven’t changed much since camp.”

This draws a small giggle from the sisters, Olaf examining a plate of carrots.

In retaliation, Danika opens her mouth, sticking out her tongue exposing a disgusting mound of chewed up chicken and mashed potatoes. The shadow weaver cringes, as does Michael.

“You are disgusting.” He says as he pops a spoonful of grilled squash into his mouth. “Would it kill you to act more like a lady?”

“I can act like a lady whenever I please.” Danika says with a pleased hopping of her shoulders.

“You mean whenever it benefits you.”

“You don’t—eat?” Elsa says to Caiden. Her first words to his companions since sitting.

Caiden’s teeth are unnervingly white. “I didn’t, in my early years. I had an . . . acquired taste.”

Elsa seems to quickly decide she doesn’t want to know what Caiden used to eat.

Anna on the other hand –

“I apologize for my curiosity, but I’d like to ask you again about who you are.” Anna suddenly interjects.

Michael chokes on his wine, and Danika’s fork clacks against her plate.

The shifter pinches the bridge of her nose. “Gods damn me, can we not?”

Color blooms on Anna’s cheeks, but the princess doesn’t back down. Even as Caiden gives a rather cold laugh.

“As I’ve said before, I am what most know as a cambion.”

Anna nods. “I’ve heard of that word, but I didn’t think it was true. It almost seems, impossible.”

Another cold, joyless laugh. “I’m afraid so.”

Silence falls. None of them, even Danika, looks at Caiden. Michael can practically feel Elsa’s blood drain from her face.

“Wha-What is that?” Kristoff asks with quiet hesitance.

A flicker of eyes between the three soldiers, and Caiden says, “It’s the most common term used to describe half-breed demons.”

Michael pities the Ice Master as he, too, pales, leaning back in his chair, away from Caiden.

“How is that possible?” Anna asks. Apparently, curiosity outweighs her fear.

Danika is staring hard at her plate, as if she might burst out of her skin.

Caiden gives a too-nonchalant shrug. “I suppose it starts with my mother. She was young, rebellious, and gullible.” As he picks his fork and pokes at a lone asparagus, he grumbles. “Of course she’d wind up in a cult. Anyway, the group had been hired by the king to experiment in breeding powerful soldiers with no limits, no care, and no conscience. I don’t remember much when I was younger, but I do remember the sounds. Moans of pain, of terror, of despair. A door gouged with what looked like claw marks, pushing out from within.”

They all went still.

“And my mother – with her great powers in judgement, and low-class status – didn’t hesitate to volunteer for such atrocities. The process required a type of . . . implantation upon the women. Virgins, preferred, but never required. They had them chained to tables. Altars. And there was sobbing. They were begging to be let go. But they were . . . they were so close to giving birth. And apparently there were no limits.”

“What?” Elsa breathes. Anna looks ready to vomit.

“Caiden –” Danika softly warns.

But the shadow weaver continues, his eyes beginning to glow more and more from within. “From what I remember, there were . . . many women, and they’d delivered at least one baby each. And were already about to give birth to another.”

“That’s impossible,” Elsa whispers.

He looks to her with calculating ire in his crimson eyes—which once already made his enemies start begging for mercy. “Nothing is impossible with dark magic. My mother didn’t survive long after having me; her first, and only child. According the king’s Court Mage, I was different. My magic was stronger than anyone realized. I don’t remember much about what I was – or am – beneath _this_ skin; but I remember scales like black diamond, and a snout with teeth. Fangs. I grew up to be their strongest soldier, assigned as the kings’ personal assassin – my magic and skill in stealth unmatched. I could hardly bare the horrible things I’d seen within the stones of that castle.”

The light had winked out of Anna’s eyes.

“As expected, or perhaps not, the process used to create us has its effects. We don’t age; at least not as quickly as humans do, though not as slow as a pureblooded demon. And even then, there are those who don’t even inherit such longevity.”

Silence falls again. And to everyone’s surprise, it is Olaf who asks. “So you’re immortal?”

The question resonates with everyone at the table, the sisters balking, Kristoff lifting his brows. No doubt with having troll as parents, the idea of immortality wasn’t as shocking.

Still, Caiden nods to the little snowman, who responds, “Wow, so you’ll always look this good?”

This manages to shatter the suffocating silence as everyone at the table smiles.

“Standard blessing and curse.” Caiden amuses. “I’m barely entering the stages of my immortal life. Nothing more than a newborn lamb in comparison to some.”

The cambion soldiers had become a notorious group in the king’s army. They had taken the name of The King’s Shadows – their stealth and silence unmatched. Like Caiden, many were trained to hide in the thinnest sliver of darkness, making them perfect as assassins and spies. Butchers. And each had those distinct and recognizable crimson eyes – a permanent marking of their heritage, one they could never hide in their entire immortal existence.

Many men and women took one look at those eyes, and it was either the last thing they ever saw, or, if they somehow managed to escape, they would always constantly be haunted: paranoid of seeing those eyes in the shadows of their home.

When Caiden first came to their camp, even when escorted by Michael, many soldiers and workers hissed and cowered at his presence, tracing symbols in the air to ward of the evil.

Elsa’s voice is a bit raw as she asks, “You weren’t on the same side to start? Then, how did you meet?”

Beneath the table, Michael places his hand on her thigh again – as a thank you, and as comfort.

Caiden merely turns to Danika, who is staring at Michael with guilt and love on her face, so deep and agonized that some instinct had Michael almost reaching across the table to grip her hand.

But Michael processes what Elsa had asked and his friend’s silent request that he tell the story instead, and a grin ghosts across his face. “I showed him my big, beautiful blue eyes, and he simply followed me into the rebel camp.”

“Well not how I’d put it, but – sure, more or less.” Caiden says with a snort.

Michael look to Elsa, his hand still on her thigh, if lifted a bit higher. “Well, I had been assigned to stake out an underground dealing – rumors stating the king was buying illegal weapons and magical items of the sorts – and as I’m spying from the shadows, this one” – Michael notions towards Caiden with a jerk of his head – “suddenly whispers in my ear. It might’ve been something clever, I don’t fully remember. We scuffled for a while, broke each other's weapons, and finally fell to the ground exhausted."

“A stalemate?" Kristoff asks with lifted brows.

Both Michael and Caiden nod, the latter saying, “Indeed. After a few minutes, he looked me dead in the eye and asked me if I wanted to join the rebellion. Just like that, no apologies."

“That was big of you to accept. What made you change your mind?” Elsa asks.

“It wasn’t something right away, believe me; I’d spent the next month thinking about it.”

“Did you guys ever meet again?” Anna asks, finally resuming her meal, some color having flushed back to her face. 

The two rebels chuckle. Michael takes a forkful of chicken. “When it wasn’t on a killing field, or happening upon each other in an ambush, no.”

Elsa looks to the shadow weaver perplexed. “It seems like it didn’t take you much convincing.”

"Something told me I wouldn't regret it. Besides, I’d seen the way the king treated his men – his own soldiers. He didn’t see us as people, just pawns in his little game of tyranny. But, there was something else about Michael’s invitation that had me balking.”

Caiden seems to revel in the silence as he takes a couple of spoonfuls of mashed potatoes, and carefully pats the corners of his mouth with his napkin. When he next speaks, he looks to Michael.

“When he looked me in the eye, he had no fear. Just, such focus and determination. And for once, I wasn’t looking at someone who respected me out of fear; whether by my rank, or my power, or even by who I was. And it felt like he was looking at me as a person, even if my skills were a big part of it.”

“Aw, you’re making me blush.” Michael teases, and a swift kick to his leg has him biting his lip. Still the notion didn’t go unnoticed by Elsa or Danika – the two women sharing a fiendish grin.

“True we each had our own trauma, but Michael saw who and what I was . . . and wasn’t afraid. It was like he saw me for the person I am – the other half of the blood that I share. He somehow saw I could be more than just the weapon I was created to be.”

“That’s really sweet.” Anna mutters, and Michael knows she’s staring at him; hence why he keeps his focus on his plate.

“I'll tell you, I wouldn't want to cross blades with him again.” Caiden gestures to Michael with his fork before stabbing his fork into his asparagus.

Michael flicks his eyes up to the shadow weaver and spares a playful wink. A shift in Elsa’s leg has their knees pressing together, and him snapping his attention to her. But he comes to find her eyes staring at Danika as the shifter ungraciously picks her teeth with her fork.

“What about you?” the queen asks.

A slow blink, then Danika’s bares her teeth in feral amusement, and takes a drink of her wine. What is that her third glass? “My story isn’t as dreadful or horrid, but it’s a story.”

“If you don’t care to share –”

A wave of those blue painted nails. “I’ve bared myself for many people in my life, Queeny – most of them far worse than you and your sister.”

Danika sets her fork on her plate before resting her elbows on the table and folding her fingers together.

“My mother was a heavily religious woman. She was part of the minority that didn’t really favor magic. She had claimed that magic was an affront to our gods and goddesses — that to wield it was to impertinently imitate their powers. So, I could only assume I gained the ability from my father. I was told he left shortly after I was born. I’ve always had a feeling that I was different. But I didn’t realize until I hit adolescence, hormones and all. And one day, I made the mistake of shifting into dormouse when my mother scared me one afternoon. When I shifted back, she beat me and threw me out only seconds later.”

They fell quiet again, Elsa’s gaze now considering.

“I sat on the doorstep for days crying and begging her to let me back in, promising to be good and that it would never happen again. She opened the door, kicked me down to the street curb and slammed the door while disowning me. I wandered the streets for a while, practicing my shifting in private, whenever I could manage, stealing things as both animals and humans. I soon learned if I made myself more beautiful – if I had made myself as stunning as an immortal – I would earn a better living than just rootling through the garbage. It soon got me picked up by one of the brothel madams. And at least I had roof over my head, a warm bed, and three-square meals a day.”

Forks clink to their plates, Kristoff choking on his water. Olaf too oblivious playing with his broccoli to notice. Elsa’s eyes widen, and Michael can feel the change in the queen’s breathing.

“So wait, this face,” Kristoff says quietly, “isn’t your real face? Your real body?”

“Kristoff.” Anna snaps.

Danika’s voice grows quiet, and hitches in a way that hits Michael like a stone to the gut. “No. And what kills me is that I can’t remember what my _real_ face looks like. I remember being as plain as wheat, and I would gather different features from different women around the kingdom and the brothel. But . . . I don’t remember if my eyes were brown, or blue or green; I can’t remember the shape of my nose, or my jaw. And it was a child’s body, too. I don’t know what I’d look like now, as a woman.”

“How long did you work at the brothel?” Elsa asks, poking her baked salmon with her fork.

“Too long. So when I heard about the rebel group, I left the first chance I got.”

“They never found you?” asks Kristoff.

Danika snorts, but gives a deadly grin. “No. I was able to keep my shifting powers hidden. Most of my clients thought that I wore wigs when I changed my hair. The only thing I could really play around with.”

“So, how did you the three of you meet in the army? Michael told me you were all assigned into an elite group.” Elsa says as she folds her hands in her lap.

“Yeah. We all hated each other at first.” Danika chuckles, sparing a small smile.

Caiden nods in agreement. “We each worked our way through the ranks, and when we were assigned together, we weren’t exactly a well working machine. We could barely choose a leader.”

“I still blame that on the commander. Leaving the decision to us. Who leaves three teenagers to decide who gets to lead?” Danika pouts as leans back into her chair.

Elsa looks to Michael with a puzzled expression. “You weren’t the leader?”

“Flattering,” he says with a gentle smile. “but no. I never saw myself fit for command.”

She turns to Caiden. “What about you? Didn’t you lead a group of the king’s men, you said?”

“I did have the most experience, but perhaps that it what left me unprepared. When fighting alongside the king’s men, our roles here, defined. But these two were different. I was too raw, and untrusting. Danika, too rash and impulsive. Michael carried too much hate.”

Michael ignores Elsa’s glance, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the shadow weaver. She knew enough about his story, about his loss. Let her piece the puzzle together.

“We were barely given any time to get to know each other,” Caiden continues. “the commander threw us together on a trial basis. We settled upon the leadership depending on the area of knowledge. Sometimes Michael would lead, others, I would. And so on.”

“Impressive, you managed to be a team without an official leader.” Says Kristoff.

“What’s your story, then?” Danika says to neither on one of the sisters in particular with a jerk of her chin.

When both look to Michael, he simply shrugs. They assumed he told them everything.

“It wasn’t my place.” Is all he says.

Elsa is the one who straightens. “I was born with magical powers. Anna doesn’t have any. Growing up, things were fine until an accident with Anna had me growing to fear them; as well as Anna’s memories of my magic being removed. Throughout the years, I shut myself off from her, fearing my powers for the longest time. And then . . .” her voice hitches, and when she looks down at her near-finished plate, hands hidden beneath the table, Michael can feel her fingers lace with his. “And then our parents’ went out on a trip, their ship went down in the Southern Sea six years ago. When I came of age, I was crowned queen, but a series of events exposed my powers and I fled, casting the kingdom in an eternal winter.”

Danika gives a low whistle, but despite glares from both Michael and Caiden, neither of the sisters look bothered.

Elsa continues, “Anna set out to save me, which is how she met Kristoff. I lost control of my powers again and froze her heart. And the trolls had said only an act of true love could thaw it.”

“I was young and naive,” Anna interjects, “and I had gotten engaged to someone I had just met that day. Being locked in a castle for over eighteen years, you tend to yearn for some kind of companionship. A change to change my lonely world. I had thought he could give me a true love’s kiss, but in the end, he only wanted power. And a kingdom to call his own. He was about to kill Elsa, and I sacrificed myself to stop him, at the cost of my body freezing into solid ice.”

The two sisters share an expression of such deep love and loyalty Michael finds himself yearning for it.

“In the end, Anna’s selfless act thawed her heart, and I came to learn to love my powers, rather than to fear them.” says Elsa, and she then turns to Michael. That same gentleness doesn’t fade from her eyes. “Love will thaw.”

He can’t help but smile back.

“Impressive you were able to freeze an entire kingdom. And be completely unaware of it, let alone have it effect your level of energy.” Caiden chimes.

“You should see the Ice Palace she created up on the North Mountain.” Anna giggles.

“An Ice Palace?” Danika chirps, her citrine eyes widening with shock.

Elsa, ever the bashful queen, smiles with a little triumph. “I had intended to be alone, to live my life up there where I felt, free. Able to be who I am without hurting anybody.”

Caiden says, “It’s clear you’ve never trained your magic before. What about to fight?”

Elsa shakes her head. “In the days I ran away, two men came and tried to kill me up at the North Mountain. I had to use my magic to defend myself. Almost losing who I was in the process.”

“How do you mean?”

“I . . . I was worried I was becoming the monster they feared I was.” Michael can feel her fingers tighten around his.

Silence. Then Danika says with a soft venom that makes everyone understand that the shifter is more than a smart mouth and a pretty face, “Let me tell you something Queeny. As someone who has perhaps been in your shoes before.” That shared bond of anger, of pain throbs between the three of them. “Your magic _does not_ define who you are. We of all people are examples of that. And,” she continues, laying her palm flat on the table, “I once lived in a place where the opinion of others mattered. It suffocated me, nearly broke me. Their words, their opinions, don’t define you either.” Her voice gentles, and the tension between them all fades with it. “You might not be able to make up for the things in the past, but what you can do, is help create a better future.”

Something sparks between the two women, a sort of understanding and appreciation that has Michael’s shoulders sagging with relief.

And apparently there was also some unspoken question between the two, because Elsa then says, “Our parents did the best they could. They didn’t really understand magic very well. But . . . they tried.”

Michael wonders if the two former rebels had seen the portrait of the sisters’ parents in the hall.

A portrait still covered with that black veil – still from moment he first arrived nearly two months ago. Still covered from when they perished six years ago.

“I presume Michael has been doing a good job of training you in combat?” Caiden drawls.

Elsa spares a small smile. “To the best of his abilities.”

“When he’s not being shot at by undead draugr or trying to hunt down nightmare-inducing demons from another dimension.” Olaf adds, trying his best to make little figurines from his untouched plate.

Caiden jerks his head towards the little snowman. “Your magic is keeping him alive as well?”

Elsa nods. “And Marshmallow, and a few snowgies up at the Ice Palace.” The two soldiers raise the brows, but the queen giggles. “I’m afraid that’s another long story for another time.” she looks to Caiden. “Michael has been doing wonders teaching me and Anna. But he said you would make a better teacher at training us in magic.”

The shadow weaver braces his arms on the table. “It would be my honor to be your teacher.”

“While I’d hate to ruin the moment, there is another matter at hand that we have to discuss.” Michael says. He feels Elsa squeeze his fingers and looks to the worried queen with a tentative smile. “We can save it for dessert.”


	47. Chapter 47

Elsa hoped dessert wouldn’t be as heavy as dinner.

Maybe dessert would be a little more, normal in the realm of conversation compared to the indiscreet interview dinner turned out to be.

Thought, that’s not to say it was a total disappointment.

What Danika had said . . . what they’d all said . . . Yes, Michael had been wise to bring them here. To let her and Anna decide if they could handle them—the teasing and intensity and power. If she and Anna wanted to be a part of a group who would likely push them, and overwhelm them, and maybe frighten them, but . . . If they are willing to stand against this new threat, after already fighting a war of their own . . .

Needless to say Elsa feels like a bit of an ass after the way she funneled her feelings towards Danika so quickly. But with what she was able to confess towards Elsa and Anna . . . suddenly some aspects of her personality make so much more sense.

She had been forced to love for however long she was in that brothel – Elsa knew there had to be so much more to the story than Danika led on – so what better way to counter it than by loving whomever she pleases, to be free to make her own choice for once.

To be able to still look towards life with a fierce smile and wildness . . . what better way to outrun the darkness. To her own surprise, she finds herself excited to finally be given proper training in controlling her magic. Or, to at least use it in a way that would protect her along with any blade.

Michael had been given an arsenal of weapons to use if the other failed. The fact that he was able to hold his own against someone like Caiden, and _walk_ _away_ . . .

The fact that even someone as powerful and eternal as Caiden wouldn’t want to fight against Michael again . . .

Elsa can’t understand why she finds that so . . . alluring.

What did she and Anna have in their own beyond a good blast of ice and brute stubbornness? And if they have this new power—these other abilities to protect themselves . . .

They will not be weak again. They will not be dependent on anyone else.

The servants come and take their plates, swiftly and deftly clearing the table before another wave come out with trays of sweets. Cakes and cookies and pies and fruit. Elsa bites back a giggle as Danika seizes the first chance to get a slice of chocolate cake, going as far as to smack Caiden’s hand with her fork before seizing the first slice.

Michael – seemingly knowing better than to get in the middle of their squabbles – settles on the chocolate dipped strawberries and a couple of sugar cookies. He suddenly chuckles and Elsa turns to find Olaf having chugged an entire pitcher of pink lemonade.

The little snowman now a bright pink from his bottom to his neck.

“So, what is it you wanted to discuss, Michael?” Anna asks as she stuff some chocolate candy in her face.

“It’s about the runes and that Midnight Beauty we’ve been seeing.”

An uneasiness settles across the table, Danika and Caiden turning their heads to him.

“I’d nearly forgotten about her. I know that sounds bad to say, but just the few days we’ve had without much incident . . . it was nice. Almost normal again.” Anna says as her gaze turns downcast.

“I understand. Believe me.” Michael says with an apologetic smile. “But I think it’s time we bring the fight to her.”

Elsa’s stomach sinks, enough that the white chocolate candy she just swallowed almost makes a reappearance. In a surprisingly steady voice, she asks, “How do you mean?”

“When we first encountered her at that temple, before she made my magic, explode on itself, she had told me to find her when I was ready.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Anna asks.

“It means she’s interested in me, and that awakening the magic in me was no accident.”

Elsa suddenly interjects. “You’re not really going to go, right?”

He looks to her with a sternness she hasn’t seen since that first day he arrived at the castle. “At this point, I feel like I have to.”

“It’s probably a trap.”

“It’s also our only option. We have to chance it.” Elsa presses her lips together, bringing her eyes to the steaming up of tea on her saucer. Michael notes this and gently grasps her elbow beneath the lip of the table. “Look, I know it might be dangerous, but if she wanted me dead, I feel like I would’ve been already. She wants something from me, and what that is, I don’t know. But maybe it’s worth finding out.”

“I would’ve assumed you wanted to stay away from her as much as possible.” Kristoff says as he stuffs a piece of melon in his mouth.

“I did. But nothing else had yielded any results except for a book I found in a secret moon in the library.”

“Secret room?” asks Anna.

“What secret room?” asks Elsa.

“I had stumbled upon this room in the library. It looked long abandoned with the dust inside, among other things.”

Elsa narrows her brows. “How long ago did you find this?”

Michael shrugs his shoulders. “I want to say a couple weeks.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us?” Anna says with a pout, putting her hands to her hips. The gesture makes Danika giggle.

“I intended to, but you know . . . some things happened.” Michael says a bit sharply.

The Midnight Beauty.

The draugr.

Michael having magic.

Demons sprouting around the kingdom.

“Fair point.”

“That’s not even the worst part. The book that I found, it has the same runes as those used at the murder scenes, when summoning the demon, and when she awakened my magic at the temple.”

“I see.” Elsa near grumbles, realizing the connection in his want to go and find this woman.

“The book had said that the runes matched that of, Northuldrian.”

Silence.

The two sisters are looking to him with shocked expression. Perhaps even horrid since they seemed to have paled. Even Kristoff has lifted his brows, his fork paused halfway towards his mouth.

“Northuldrian?” Elsa breathes.

“That’s it what said. It’s up in my room right now, but you can take a look after we’re done. What do you know about the language?”

Elsa suddenly looks to Anna, and she could’ve sworn she felt their hearts quicken in unison. “When we were little, our father told us a story about the mysterious Northuldra people, who lived in an enchanted forest far away; as north as we can go.” Says Elsa. “The forest is said to be very old, and very enchanted. But it’s magic wasn’t that of goblin spells or lost fairies. It was protected by the most powerful spirits of all: those of air, water, fire, and earth.”

“Were these people magical?” Danika asks through a mouthful of cake.

Anna shakes her head. “Our father said _they_ weren’t magical, but took advantage of the forests gifts.”

“How did your father know all of this?” Caiden asks.

Elsa tries to ignore the ache in her heart, and the familiar fear as she looks towards the shadow weaver. “Because he visited them, when he was very little. They promised us friendship, and our grandfather, King Runeard at the time, built them a dam to strengthen their waters, as a gift of peace.”

“Maybe they know something about the runes. Maybe it was something created in the early days of their culture.” Caiden suggests.

Danika and Michael nod in agreement, but it’s the shifter who says, “How long a journey is it to the this, forest?”

“I don’t know. None of us do. Only our father knew the way, but even then, it would be fruitless.” Elsa says, her tone heavying.

“Why?”

“Because, something . . . went wrong, and the next thing my father knew, they were attacking us. And our grandfather was lost.” Everyone bows their head in condolence. Still Elsa pulls herself to continue despite her stuttering heart and sinking stomach. “The fighting enraged the spirits, turning their magic against everyone.”

“I thought you said your parents passed in a shipwreck.” Michael gently asks.

“They did,” Anna answers. “Someone saved our father that day. Because that night, he returned home, King of Arendelle.”

Elsa could almost sense the chill that runs through the three rebel soldiers. “We were told that after the battle, the spirits then vanished. And a powerful mist covered the forest. Locking everyone out. And it still stands to this day. No one can get in, and no one has ever come out.”

“I suppose that’s a good thing. Should they ever find a way to free themselves, you might have an impending invasion on your hands, Queeny.” Says Danika with a sip of her wine. “But there also goes our only source who might be able to read these runes you guys keep seeing.”

“I could do some research. See if there something in any of the books I have.” Caiden suggests.

“You have books about Northuldians?” asks Anna.

“I might’ve stumbled across it without giving it much thought. But once I see more of the runes, I can make a better comparison.”

“How has the forest not awoken again?” Michael asks Elsa, grasping her elbow to get her attention.

“I don’t know. I remember asking my mother that same question, and she only responded with: Only Ahtohallan knows.”

Danika’s brows knit together. “Ahta-who-what?”

Elsa giggles, finally bringing her hands up onto the table to enjoy her slice of cake and cookies. “When we were little, our mother used to sing about a special river called, Ahtohallan. It’s a magical river said to hold all the answers about the past; about what we are a part of.”

“That’s the river from that song.” Michael says with a smile of understanding. Elsa nods with a proud smile – touched, even that he remembers.

“So what’s our next move?” Caiden asks.

Elsa turns to look at Michael, as does everyone else. “Danika and I are planning on going to the temple to find that Midnight Beauty. The Northuldrians might not be of any use to us, but maybe she can. She obviously has enough experience with the runes to know how to use them. You girls and Caiden are going to stay here and see what else you can dig up in that secret room in the library.”

“What?” Elsa exclaims. “You can’t expect me to let you go and face that woman by yourself!”

“You’re the Queen of Arendelle, you’re needed here. And if gods forbid something happens to you, I’d never forgive myself.” Michael says sternly.

Elsa pouts her lips. “I can protect myself just fine, Michael. You _and_ I.”

“I never said you couldn’t. But you saw what that woman did to me, did to my magic. I wouldn’t want that to happen to anyone. Danika has had more training; the worst that could happen to her is she shifts into a fly.”

A fair point. If her magic reacts as badly as Michael’s – perhaps even worse considering she has no training, whereas Michael at least has an unbreaking iron will.

The damage she saw that day at the temple. The power that erupted when he jumped into the fjord . . .

“Yes,” she finds herself saying bitterly. “You’re probably right.”

He places his hand on her thigh, as he has been during the whole meal – and she manages a timid smile. Even without his hand on her leg, even when trying to ignore the heat that pulses between her legs with every one of his touches, the warmth if left like a welcoming stain.

When she looks to Michael, seeing his soft smile and full lips, she blinks for a minute in confusion.

A shimmering golden halo rests about his head, like a crown of sunlight.

She blinks again, and it’s gone.

There again.

Gone again.

“Are you okay?” Michael asks.

Elsa flutters her eyes, and it doesn’t show again, so she takes a breath and says, “Yeah. Sorry, I think I had something in my eye.”

But when she catches Danika and Caiden also staring at Michael, uncertainty has her heart skipping a beat.

The shifter’s citrine eyes flick to the queen, and Elsa could’ve sworn she saw the shifter give the slightest dip in her chin.

She saw it too.

“When do you plan on leaving?” Elsa asks the shifter as an excuse to keep her gaze.

Danika blinks, resuming her casual posture as she plucks a grape in her mouth. “Michael said we’d be leaving shortly after lunch.”

Elsa whirls to him. “That soon?”

A confirming nod. “I figured that way we could be home before midnight. If it even takes us that long.”

 _Clever little soldier_ , Elsa thinks.

As if he’d heard her, Michael gives one waggle of his brows before turning to Danika. “I would hope that’s enough time for you to ready yourself.”

“Are you kidding, I’m going to need at least an hour to get ready.”

Michael rolls his eyes as Caiden chuckles. “It’s going to be covert, Danika.”

“Oh, well then I’m gorgeous.” She says with a wave of her fork, resuming to picking between her teeth with it.

“I’m serious, Danika. I don’t plan on engaging this woman – or, whatever she is. And if you saw what she did to me, you’d think the same.”

“From what you wrote in your letter, it seems like she rattled you pretty good. I almost want to admit I’m impressed.”

Caiden clears his throat in warning. Michael spares him a small shake of his head.

“Well, what are we supposed to do?” Anna asks.

“I assumed you guys could help Caiden in deciphering the Northuldrian runes. If they provide any meaning or if they even are the ones we’re looking for.” Says Michael.

“You mean, you don’t know for sure?”

“It’s the closest match I’ve come to make, but I’m trying to leave all possibilities open. Especially since there hasn’t been another murder around the kingdom.”

“Knock on wood.” Kristoff mutters.

“What do you even hope to gain?” Elsa asks as she looks back to Michael.

“Information; of any kind.”

A heavy burp from Danika near startles them both, and the shifter takes a long cat-like stretch. “Well, I need a moment to digest this lovely food, and to prepare myself for whatever is to come.”

“I should get ready too. Caiden why don’t you come up to my room and I can show you the rest of the notes I’ve collected.”

“Sure.” As the three rise from their seats, only Caiden speaks to the sisters as he leaves. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Danika spares a chipper smile and a friendly wave as she passes, and to Elsa’s surprise, Michael spares a quick kiss on Elsa’s head as he passes to leave. He traces his fingers along her shoulder, down to her left arm, giving her fingers a slight reassuring squeeze before he follows Caiden and Danika out.

Their little stolen moments must’ve been brutally obvious to the shifter and shadow weaver. Elsa’s cheeks flush with embarrassment.

But she doesn’t have time to dwell as she senses eyes upon her, and Elsa turns to find Anna with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.

Elsa can’t stop the laugh that bursts past her lips. “You’re going to catch a fly, Anna.”

“When did _that_ happen?!” she exclaims, near bursting from her seat.

Kristoff suddenly says, “I think Olaf and I need to go check on Sven in the stables.”

Elsa is ever grateful for the Ice Master as he gets up from his seat, grabbing Olaf and tucking the little snowman under his arm like a piece of baggage. Olaf continues to talk about small trivial facts, uncaring of the sudden situation.

The giggles in Elsa’s throat keep hitching her words. Anna has changed her seats, near bouncing to Elsa’s side. “When did that happen between you guys!? I mean I expected it, but I didn’t think anything would actually happen!”

“What do you mean you expected it?” Elsa scoffs.

“Oh please, I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. Now what happened?!” Anna takes her hands and shakes them with excitement, Elsa unable to hide her glowing smile.

“We – we might’ve shared a kiss, after your birthday party. And . . . a couple more after.”

Anna squeals as she envelopes Elsa in a bone crushing hug. “Oh my gosh, your first kiss that’s so exciting! And not when on the verge of death.” The two sisters giggle – at Elsa’s news, and at themselves for acting like little schoolgirls. “Oh Elsa, I’m so happy for you. You deserve it.”

“I’m surprised you approve. But glad, regardless.”

“Elsa, I’ve been courting Kristoff, a simple Ice-Harvester-now-Ice-Master. Who am I to judge who you decide to court?”

The queen giggles as she and her sister hug again. “Well, despite what may be official for us, I don’t know how he’s going to cope.”

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t know how he’ll, adjust, to our lifestyle. He’s a soldier, and . . . I’m worried he’s going to have reservations about being king.”

“Well, you guys don’t have to get married right away.”

“Even so, what if he doesn’t want it? What if that’s the one thing that keeps him from, wanting to be with me?”

“Could’ve fooled me, seeing how he’s already comfortable showing you affection.”

“Maybe because he still has this ‘job’ to keep him busy.”

Anna hums with contemplation. “Maybe he and Kristoff can talk. The two share enough in common. And Kristoff really adjusted well.”

“You think he would be okay talking with him?”

“Oh, come on! They’ve already gone shopping together, what’s a little chat among friends over tea?”

Elsa chuckles as she places her napkin on the table. “What do you think of Danika and Caiden?”

“Honestly, surprisingly good people; despite all they’ve been through. It’s almost a miracle. Admirable more than anything.”

“I know, it’s amazing. My heart goes out to them.”

“Although, it was pretty amusing to see you stare daggers at Danika.” Elsa flicks her sister’s temple. Anna bats her hand away with a giggle. “Oh, I’m happy for your Elsa. You really deserve such happiness.”

“Thank you, Anna. And I’m glad you’re okay with this.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? But let me take my leave so you can go say goodbye.” As Elsa follows her sister out, Anna suddenly peers around the dining room threshold and says, “You two play nice now.”

Elsa yelps with embarrassment. “Anna!”


	48. Chapter 48

Michael would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous.

He’d gone to his room to prepare himself for the journey, gathering the materials Caiden needed to do his research on the Northuldrian runes. Well, possible Northuldrian runes.

He was passing over some notes and books when there had been a knock at his door.

No surprise when he opened it, he found Elsa standing there.

And Caiden, ever observant, seized his opportunity to take his leave, sparring a respectful nod to the queen.

But the moment she kicked the door closed behind him, she near pounced on him like a cat. The aggression made him growl as she seized his mouth, giggling like a young woman as her hands clawed at his tunic, ready to shred the fabric to pieces.

Michael indulged her, and himself, as she pressed him against the wall. His hands had roved all over her, the generous curves and small waist, tangling into her long, heavy hair. She’d kissed and kissed him, breathless and panting, and then licked—actually licked along the hollow curve of his jaw.

He couldn’t stop himself from cupping her backside and lifting her up, her legs wrapped around his waist as if the was the most natural thing in the world. He turned and pinned her against the wall, moaning into his mouth as he pressed their hips together.

She pulled them apart long enough to stare into his eyes – the hunger in her own nearly undoing him. But she managed to find words as she cupped his face in her hands. “Come back alive, please.”

“I’ll always come back to you.” He near growled.

Now, sitting on horseback heading towards the temple – Danika a red-tailed hawk flying high above him – Michael still can’t shake the phantom feeling of Elsa’s lips on his.

He’s memorized her snow-covered lilac scent by now – a wisp of it still lingering on his hands, on his mouth – and he finds it surprisingly calming. A comfort of sorts.

Elsa had followed him down to the stables as Kai prepped a horse for him, Elsa insisting it would be faster than on foot. Danika declined the mare the queen had ready for her before shifting into the same hawk that swoops past his shoulder before arcing high into the sky.

Michael thought the temple was a lot closer before when he chased that demon out of the castle, but then again, he might’ve been so consumed by the rush of the event that he lost all sense of time. He only saw that demon’s shadow darting back and forth between the trees. Pink begins to stain the clouds behind them, the golden disc of the sun sliced in half over the horiozn.

As they travel up the familiar road, Michael looks over his shoulder to see the hills leading down to Arendelle. To the houses glowing with a buttery warmth, to the glittering castle housing the lovely and kind Snow Queen.

He didn’t think being away from her would affect him this much – then again, he’s barely left her side since his arrival, come to think of it. The distance . . . the time it would take to come back –

Michael shakes his head. He shouldn’t think about it. Elsa can take care of herself, and they have Caiden guarding them as well. The cambion can slice a man down before they even set eyes upon the sisters.

A caw sounds from above and Michael looks to find Danika circling overhead. She must’ve found it. He nudges the horse into a canter, keeping a lazy hand on the fletching of the arrows in the quiver mounted on his saddle, the bow an impressionable weight at his back.

The overhanging tree limbs and funneling path becomes familiar, an eerie silence washing over him like whispering sand.

It’s more than just animals quieting at the sight of a predator. This silence feels like a ripple, because the sound comes and goes.

As if it is approaching.

The trees seemed to lean in, their entwined branches locking tighter, a living cage keeping even the smallest of birds from soaring out of the canopy.

He mentally tries to prepare himself for what he is about to see, excitement mingling with fear. He hadn’t felt such suffocation when coming here before.

The ruins come into view, and his stomach sinks like when the ocean is slowly consuming a dying ship. It doesn’t help when the horse immediately starts to whinny and whine when they round the corner.

“Easy,” Michael has to coo, but the poor thing won’t have any of it. It huffs and stomps it front hooves, shaking its head as if trying to break free from the reins.

Closer and closer the silence creeps.

Without much choice, and Danika slowly making her descent into the ruins, Michael decides to tie the horse at a thick branch a few meters away from the site. The poor mare seems content, if still a bit uneasy. Not that he really blames her.

He dismounts, filling the quiver at his back with the arrows tied into the saddlebag. He pats the female’s powerful flank and makes the rest of the trek on foot.

He looks up in time to see Danika’s shadow dive down into the ruins, her flicker of light barely visible. But moments later her humanoid form saunters out, meeting him at the front.

He takes in every detail, every exit, every weakness as they entered the large courtyard beyond the shattered wall.

It is so still. As if everything, even the stones, is holding its breath. As if it has been waiting.

The sensation only worsened when Michael wordlessly leads her into the faint outline of the main building.

“Odd.” Danika admits. “I didn’t think I’d have this feeling ever again.”

Now that he has his own magic, he knows what she means.

That distinct humming that thrums through the stones.

The whispered prayers of long-forgotten worshipers still being heard, giving power. The echoes of the power that had dwelled here long ago.

“I never noticed it until now.” Michael says, swallowing past the tightness. Danika places a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Over here is a portion of wall that has depictions of the Fae.”

“Fae? Really?” Danika breathes as she follows his finger.

“I don’t know if there are any connections.”

“This place _must_ be old.” The shifter says as she runs her hand along the wall, her gaze drifting about the pale stone. “Legends speak of the Fae settling her over five hundred years ago.”

“Wonder what drove them out?”

“More importantly, let’s hope that threat – if any – is long gone too.”

Michael motions for her to follow. “She had me right about here, then that’s when the runes showed up. And she just – she just emerged from the shadows.”

Danika kneels over the cracked stone, her blue-painted nails grazing through the dirt and nature’s debris: acorn shells, pinecones, crusty leaves, and dried pine needles.

Nothing.

Disappointment has Michael slouching his shoulders. “Maybe there really isn’t any connection with this place regarding the sisters.”

“Other than it’s still some kind of powerhouse. A kind of, conduit, almost.”

“Let’s have a look around, just in case.” Danika nods, and as she turns Michael stops her. “Listen, I really appreciate you guys coming out here. I know it probably wasn’t your first choice, but it really means a lot.” He rubs his hands together, fiddling with his fingers in a similar way he’s seen Elsa do.

“I’m not going to lie, it’s nice to be back. I didn’t realize how much I’d been missing it; which is exactly what Caiden is afraid of. He’s worried that the rush that comes with the uniform will get it’s hooks in and, I won’t give it up until my dying day.”

“I hope I didn’t ruin anything you had going.”

Danika scoffs, but doesn’t look to him when she says, “Please, I couldn’t say yes fast enough.”

“If it’s too much trouble for you –”

“Let’s not worry about it now. This isn’t the time.” She sharply says.

Michael nods. With a wink, Danika shifts into a lean hound with a coat of steel-colored fur. She begins sniffing around the stones, her tail waving back and forth.

Michael continues to saunter around the open courtyard as she disappears between two large blocks. Something tells him he won’t find anything around here; this woman too mystical to human and leave evidence behind. He doubts they’re going to stumble upon any secret room where they’ll find a table loaded with evidence and tells of who she is.

He kicks around some pine needles and dust, some odd part of him hoping to find some trace of the runes.

As he looks out over the span of land before him, his heart sinks as he spots the blackened circle he caused when his fire first erupted.

A radius he didn’t dare measure, but one Elsa had managed to quench.

Somehow.

All too soon, his spine tingles – the feeling of flower petals drifting up his spine – and a whispering voice as thin as a summer’s breeze.

Michael has his bow loaded and aimed at the pockets of shadow around the glitter white stones.

“Michael!” Danika exclaims, her pounding feet breaking past a different set of stones.

He could’ve sworn her skin looked paler, her citrine eyes glowing.

Then he hears it: a whisper, as if cloth is dragging over root and stone, a soft and comfortable exhale, bare feet padding in dirt.

“I never thought I’d see the fly walk into the spider’s web.” Her voice is at once one and many, old and young, beautiful and grotesque.

The blood rushes from Michael’s head. He forces himself to take a breath. And another. Then he says in a too-quiet voice: “Show yourself.”

Danika swears, the sound of defeat in her tone makes him want to run. But still he hears the whine of her sword as she draws.

He aims his bow where he thinks he heard the voice, and she appears just like before.

Her perfection never ceases to strike him stupid. Her raven-black hair still floats on an ebony wind, her skin still as pale as moonlight. Her eyes which he distinctly remembers being violet now look black and depthless in the shadows.

Fearsome in her perfection, utterly still, eternal and calm and radiating ancient grace.

He is more unnerved when she prowls towards him in a down of cobalt – nearly identical to the one Elsa had worn.

 _Run_ , some primal, intrinsically human part of him whispers. Begs. _Run and run and never look back_.

He manages to process what she said and stupidly answers. “Are you, Fae?”

She smiles, revealing sharp little canines. “How many sleepless nights have you had trying to uncover my secrets? Well, allow me to put your mind at ease: I am no more Fae than I am any other person denizen of the magical world.”

Not an answer. A move to get him on uneven footing.

 _This could work to your advantage. You can get the answers you need right ­here, right now. Go back to Arendelle in a matter of minutes. Just—breathe_.

Breathing, as it turns out, is rather hard when a woman who looks like she drives men to madness for amusement is observing every flicker of his throat.

“I see you’ve brought a little pet, too. How adorable.” Those obsidian eyes flick to Danika, who has shifted into a large cat with a coat of obsidian. She stalks towards him, nearly placing herself in between him and the Fae Queen.

He could have sworn there was disapproval in the Fae Queen’s smile.

The silence is as thick as fog. Not one creature dares to make a sound in her presence.

No exchanging pleasantries, then. She is going right for the throat. He can handle it. He could ignore the pain and terror to get what he wants. So Michael smiles just as faintly and says, “You told me to find you when I’m ready. You never said I couldn’t bring a friend.”

He makes a point of lowering his bow despite Danika’s growl of warning.

“Indeed. Though, I sense you’re here for more than one curiosity.” The Queen of Faedom lifts an elegant hand, gesturing to the warrior. “Believe it or not, I’d be happy to answer any question you have.”

“Excuse if I’m not too believing on your words.” Michael nearly sneers.

“What have I ever done, dear boy, to make you not trust me.”

“You threaten the lives of the Queen and Princess of Arendelle. All seemingly for sport if it’s not power or the throne that you want.”

She giggles, the sound like grating against his bones. “I don’t care about them. I care about you.”

Michael bites his tongue hard enough to keep his gods damned smart­ass mouth shut.

Her venom-coated smile grows. “I have been waiting a long, long while to meet you. And as I do not travel much, I could not see you. Not with my eyes, at least.” The queen’s long nails gleam in the light. “You’re a very difficult man to track.”

“A force of habit; not sleeping in the same place twice.”

“Oh, what a horrid life to live.” She muses with a terrifyingly innocent pout.

“I’ve managed.” He ground out.

The Fae Queen cocks her head, eerily similar to an owl. “But now you are ­here,” she says, seeming to come closer without moving. “And a grown man. My eyes across the seas have brought me such strange, horrible stories of you. From your scars and steel, I wonder whether they are indeed true. Like the tale I heard once that an assassin with eyes of sapphire was spotted in a wagon bound for—”

“Enough.” Michael glances at Danika, who is listening intently, as if this were the first she was hearing it. “I know my own history.” Michael flexes his fingers cradling the bow string, keeping them ready to draw at the thought. Who is this woman? And how does she know his entire history? Why bother making a move now, out of every other time? “I’m an assassin, yes.”

Just speaking the word aloud—the damned word he had dreaded and hated and tried to forget . . .

“And your other talents?” the woman’s nostrils flare—scenting. “What has become of them?”

“Forgotten. I never knew I had them, so I never bothered to try. Training in the army kept my attention.”

Those violet eyes twinkles, and Michael knew—knew that she could smell the half-truth. “You are not in the army anymore,” she purrs.

 _Run_. Every instinct roars with the word.

“If you wanted to kill me, why wait until now? When I’m grown and in my prime? Were you just looking for a challenge?”

A crow’s laugh. “There are legends whispered over fires about the other skin I wear. No one has lived to tell anything beyond shadows and claws and a darkness to devour the soul. I wanted to see how deep your magic goes, how rooted it’s become in your skin.”

He could still feel the burn of blue wildfire exploding out of him from the runes that were once at his feet, still see Elsa’s face as he lost control of it. One wrong move, one wrong breath, and he could have killed her.

“Show me,” She whispers with a spider’s smile.

Run. _Run_.

There is a faint pulse in the air, a throbbing against his blood. A tapping, then a razor-­sharp slicing against his mind—as if she were trying to cleave open his skull and peer inside. Pushing, testing, tasting—

Fighting to keep his breathing steady, Michael tightens his fingers around the bowstring as he pushes back against the claws in his mind. The woman lets out a low laugh, and the pressure in his head ceases.

“Your father hid you for years,” she says. “He always had a remarkable talent for knowing when my eyes were searching for you. Such a rare gift—the ability to summon and manipulate flame. So few exist who possess more than an ember of it; fewer still who can master its wildness. And yet he wanted you to stifle your power—though he knew that I only wanted you to submit to it.”

Michael’s breath burns his throat. “Shut your mouth,” he says, his words trembling as he fought the pain of the searing memories. How does she –

The Fae Queen goes on, “Look at how well that turned out for him.”

Michael’s blood freezes. Every self-preserving instinct went right out of his head. “You don’t dare, talk about my father. Or my mother.” He speaks so low, from so deep in his shredded soul, that the words were barely more than a growl.

Against his volition, his body straightens, every muscle going taut, his bones straining. Magic, but deeper than that. Power that seizes everything inside him and took control: even his blood flows where she wills it.

He can’t move. That invisible, talon-tipped hand scrapes against his mind. And he knew—one push, one swipe of those mental claws, and who he is will cease to exist.

“Let him go,” Danika says, bristling, but doesn’t advance forward. He didn’t even see her shift back. A kind of panic has entered her eyes, and she glanced from him to the Fae Queen.”

“I’d forgotten that human minds are as fragile as eggshells,” the woman croons, and runs a finger across the base of Michael’s throat. He shudders, his eyes burning. “But you are no mere human, Michael. I’m sure the trolls told you that.

She angles her head slightly.

“You could only imagine my surprise when I looked and found those porous eyes staring at me.” Her fingers entangle in his hair, brushing his bangs off his forehead, revealing the scar hidden beneath. “Such an abhorrent invasion of my privacy.”

She traces a taloned nail across his neck.

Had he retained any semblance of control over his body, Michael might have vomited.

“Let. Him. Go.” Danika’s face is twisted with such feral rage that it strikes a different, deeper chord of terror in Michael.

He opens his mouth, readying for words, but – nothing. Only gaping lips and wheezing sounds that resemble a fish out of water.

When the woman looks to him, she flutters her long, fanning lashes. Another white-toothed smile. “Alas, the elder one couldn’t see much. Such adorable infant magic. shredded with one swipe of my claws.”

Those same invisible claws lazily caress his mind again—then vanishes.

Michael sinks to the ground, curling over his knees as he reeled in everything that he is, as he tries to keep from sobbing, from screaming, from emptying his stomach onto the floor.

His bow scatters away from him, but he could care less.

“Does your little queen know about your checkered past, sweetheart?”

So many questions. So little strength. His mind is reeling, spinning as the world had spun when he plunged into that well of magic he never knew he had.

The whispering of her skirt comes closer, Michael unable to move despite the tingle that slithers up his spine. Then a cold hand caressing the back of his head in a mockery of solace.

“I have to say, Michael. When I found out the truth, I was _very_ impressed. All this time I had no idea – the power lurking inside you. It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?”

“Stop.” He says, the word trembling.

“Why? Are you afraid of the truth? There’s nothing to fear, my dear. What you have concealed, you shall become, Michael. You will burn the skies. Flesh with turn to ash. You need to know the truth, and I do plan to tell you.”

“Which is what?”

“Your magic has a deeper root than blood, my dear.” She drawls. “Something deeper and more powerful than anything this world has seen.”

“Is that why you want me? For my power?”

“In a sense, yes. But not in the common way. Believe it or not, I’m looking out for you. This kind of power isn’t natural, even on the concepts of magic.”

“The runes – the ones you used to awaken this power . . .”

She smiles, and it is not a thing of beauty. “The Old Language, though powerful in its own right, not too common these days. I needed to find an alternative to awaken your magic. It’s how we are alike, you and I. Power beyond the comprehension of scholars and mortals alike.”

“I don’t want it.” The first truth he’s told.

“The choice was never yours to begin with. The power exists, and no matter what you wish, no matter where you go, no matter how you squirm, there is nothing. You can do. To stop it.”

“You’re lying. There has to be a way; I just have to find it.”

“Your determination really is adorable. I can see how you charmed the Snow Queen.”

Michael looks straight in those death-dealing eyes. “Leave her out of this.”

“I didn’t bring her into this. You did. The moment you came into her life. Does she know of the horribly delicious things you did in your time in the war?” She says, then slowly adds, as if she savored every word. “Does she know of the men and women you tortured; that you know how peel a man’s skin from his bones and keep him alive while doing it; of the king you beheaded like a trophy on a hunt?”

“Shut your mouth,” he growls, the voice not his own.

But she kept staring at him, her smile growing. “Does she know of the monster that prowls beneath your skin? Of the thing you keep shackled behind that grief-stricken little boy?” she leans closer until her lips brush against the outer shell of his ear. “If she ever does find out, she will never accept you. Never love you . . . and you know that.”

“Be quiet!” he surges to his feet. A dagger drops into his hand, but his hand hits air, a force so condensed it ripples like water.

With a swing of her hand, Michael is sent flying across the courtyard into a slab of stone. His back arcs in pain and stars dance in his eyes.

Danika pounces on the woman in a blue of claws and fangs, but the woman dissipates into wisps of black smoke. Without missing a beat, Danika shifts back into her human form near sprinting for Michael as he pushes himself to his knees.

The woman reappears, the smoke gathering and filling into a solid form. “It’s time she learned the truth, and if you don’t tell her, I will.”

“Why?” Michael breathes, the impact having knocked the air from his lungs.

“Because you need proper guidance. Proper training, and all she can offer you is a handful of snowflakes. You deserve better.”

“How do you know what’s best for me?” Michael growls as he leans on Danika who lifts them both to their feet. The anger and the fear dragging him down into an inescapable exhaustion.

Another dangerous smile.

The Fae Queen lifts a moon-white hand to rest over her heart. “A mother always knows what’s best for her child.”


	49. Chapter 49

“My mother is dead.” Michael says in a too-quiet voice.

He cannot hide the trembling if he could, and he’s ever grateful for Danika’s support – literal and rhetorical – as he feels himself stumble a bit.

“And now, I’ve been reborn, my darling.”

“No –” he chokes, even as he discreetly reaches for one of the daggers strapped at his waist. Should he even risk trying to fight? With half a thought she could have those razor-sharp claws seizing his mind again. He does his best to control his breathing – refusing to allow the shift of fear in his scent. “My mother would never do this. Would never say these things.”

The Fae Queen – as he’s resorted to calling her; seemingly more fitting than Midnight Beauty – folds her hands in front. Her hair continues to undulate on phantom wind, the skirt of her dress rippling like ink in water. Both move with an unrushed serenity, moving as one, yet following their own waltz.

“I did what I could for you. And for _us_. I might not have been able to save your father, but I am here to save you.” She extends a moon-white hand towards them. Danika gives a low growl in warning.

Michael shakes his head, his heart crushing at tears well in his eyes. “You’re lying.”

“Look inside your memories, my darling. I _am_ your mother. You _are_ my son.”

“I – I can’t be. Even if it was true, I’m not like you. I’m not Fae, I can’t be.”

A cold, joyless laugh. Enough so she tips her head back, exposing the long column of her neck. He should’ve taken the shot, but fear of that gripping darkness has him remaining still. Danika’s hand – which had been secured around his waist – briefly squeezes his side. Confirmation he made the right choice. He can’t let his emotions get the better of his judgment. She’s still offering answers, he can’t afford to lose that, no matter how deeply those claws seem to reach inside his mind.

“My dear, I am not Fae, though I bear the beauty and longevity of one. I told you, I am no more a Fae than I am a cambion, or an elf or a troll. I just, am.”

Michael manages to steady himself, finally easing himself off Danika. The shifter palms a knife in her hand, an asp ready to strike.

“My mother wasn’t magical. My father” – he chokes – “maybe; I’ve never asked before.”

“I might not have been able to do much for either of you before, but that all changed.”

She lifts her pale hand, her taloned nails gleaming.

Faster than he can react, a streak of that familiar darkness shoots before him, but this time, he’s ready.

Michael whirls, swiping his leg and an arc of fire blazes before him. The darkness hisses upon contact. He didn’t know if it was real or in his mind – the sound like a cat baring fangs.

The two forces collide, Michael preparing himself for the impact, that is, until he looks down and finds the darkness has spared a small circle of space for him. The alabaster stone of the temple shines like a beacon beneath his feet, while all around him is once again blanketed in by that impenetrable fog.

Then all he hears is screaming.

High-pitched shrieking and pleading. Bones snapping, blood splattering like rain, cloth ripping, and screaming, screaming, _screaming_ —

Michael squeezes his eyes shut so hard it hurts. Squeezes them shut so hard he is shaking.

Another plunder into his memories; another layer she’s trying to peel back, just like she did in the square.

But then, he realizes –

“ _DANIKA_!” Michael bellows.

Another scream answers in return.

Somewhere within the blackness, Danika is being tortured. Slaughtered.

Oh gods. Caiden would never forgive him if Danika –

If Danika . . .

If he brought them here just to get them killed –

Michael clenches his fist as he takes a step out of the circle, stumbling blindly through the black fog, trying to follow the screams through the cacophony of chaos.

“Danika?” Michael calls, but his voice comes out as a croaks. The only hope he has is the screaming means that Danika is still alive. “Danika?”

Blackness.

The coppery tang of blood, and that festering odor, slams into him.

Then there are warm, rough hands on him, dragging him away, and the woman’s voice at his ear, saying, “Don’t look.”

The screaming is still erupting behind them.

“ _No_! _Danika_!” he bellows, his throat scratching raw as he drives his elbow into what he thinks is the woman’s ribs.

The jab lands home and those hands loosen, Michael seizing his chance to grab her fumbling wrists and yank her down has he drove his head up.

He revels in the pain as the crown of his head makes contact with what he can only assume is her nose.

He grits his teeth at the sound of cartilage cracking.

Another elbow to her stomach and a swift kick to accompany it, Michael is free, and is sprinting through the darkness to gods know where.

At this point, he’d be happy if he were to ram into a tree. Just something to prove to him that he is still in the real world, that this is just an illusion and he’ll be able to find Danika and leave this place. Wherever they run will be sanctuary.

The screaming stops.

Only the patter of his feet now echo in his ears. In the seemingly never-ending darkness.

Michael stops running.

“Danika?” The word is a raw, broken sound.

Silence.

Suffocating _silence_.

He is pulling away from his body. Inch by inch. Like a tide ebbing from the shore.

“DanikaDanikaDanika –”

Then, trickling to his ears like a mountain stream, whispers begin to mingle in the darkness. The world is awash with fog and darkness and voices.

All around him are whispering, laughing, otherworldly voices.

“ _I couldn’t do anything then. But I can do something now_.” The woman speaks. Her voice echoes as if they were in a cave. He can’t tell if he thought it, or if she said it out loud.

Suddenly the ground shatters beneath him.

He falls through, and the scream within him breaks loose at last.

He crosses his arms over his face, shielding his eyes from the jagged shards of illusionary glass that wink around him in the blackness, threatening to shred him.

He topples until he slows to a steady drift, riding along the current of infinity. He feels it wrap around him like a swaddle, aimlessly guiding him. Unrushed.

Glass rains like lethal confetti, a shard embedding itself in his shoulder, another slicing his ankle. He opens his eyes to find the darkness churning, witnessing the ebb and flow of the black. Above him, a shattered stained-glass skylight opens to reveal the swirl of a storm-ridden sky. Ash floats through the opening left by his fall.

Still no sign or sound of Danika.

This woman, she’s trying to unsettle him. Plunder him through different scenarios to confuse him, to lure him into some kind of unraveling madness; to abandon hope that he’s even in his world anymore.

In a fit of panic, Michael lifts his hand to his face. Still somehow able to see himself in this darkness, his heart settles as he finds the scar trailing from his knuckle to his wrist.

It’s enough of a reprieve to get his thoughts back on track. To try and focus on finding Danika.

Even as he fears the worst, he pushes aside his grief. There will be time to mourn later.

Every one of the restraints he’d locked into place after he’d rampaged through that death camp snaps free.

An icy, endless rage sweeps through him, wiping away everything except the plan that he can see with brutal clarity. The killing calm, one of his commanders had once called it. Even they had never realized just how calm Michael could get when he went over the edge.

He rights himself, planting his feet firmly on the ground. Somewhere within him, surprise sparks that there even is a ground, but it’s quickly swallowed by that hardened silence within him. His own darkness swallowing it whole.

He yanks the shard from his shoulder, biting back the pain, blocking out the sound of shredding fabric and skin. He chucks it aside, feeling the blood permeate his armor. But he ignores it.

He begins to walk, but he takes no more than fifteen paces before the darkness opens beneath his feet, revealing hardwood floors and an ornate rug in dire need of sweeping.

Blocking his face from an anticipated attack, Michael squeezes his eyes shut as light begins to streak through the dark.

Then the smell of roast duck breaches his nose, mixing with freshly chopped wood and lavender soap. The fire burning on the hearth to his right warms his side.

Blinking against the sudden contrast, Michael finds himself back home.

Back at the little cabin in the woods – his home.

Whole and rich with life.

And there, seated in the two rocking chairs as they always did in the evenings, are his mother and father.

His father’s golden-brown hair is tousled from the autumn winds, the color seeping into his beard – which though he kept trimmed and even, never bothered to shave altogether. His callus hands permanently stained with years of work, his fingernails still housing dirt no matter how many times he washed his hands.

His deep blue eyes – Michael’s eyes – flicker across the pages of the newest book his mother had bought from the store. Some new Danish author she thought would intrigue him. He sits back relaxed in his chair, one foot planted on the ground while the other rested on his knee. He wore a shirt of beige, tucked into brown trousers.

And his mother, she sat across from him, her chair more active as she carefully rocks back and forth, that gentle lullaby – the one he knew word for word – emanating from her closed lips in a hum that washed over him like a fresh cup of tea. The dress she wore was a soft coral, off-setting her stunning sea-green eyes, her raven-black hair pulled back by a simple comb his father had given her for Christmas one year.

And the little bundle she held in her arms . . .

The little hand that reaches up to touch the locket resting at the base of her chest . . .

It was an agony.

An agony, to see his parents, young and strong and wise. Sitting together in that comfortable silence that they all shared – never a need to talk, to give voice to the air.

And the cabin –

It was perfect. Everything exactly as he remembers it, right down to the little gouges in the wall from when he first started training with a blade.

Michael is shaking—shaking so badly he thought his skin would ripple off his bones. “How dare you.” He growls to nothing. It is not entirely human. “What gives you the right to invade my mind and steal this memory from my childhood?”

“It’s not your memory, Michael.” The woman’s voice echoes, only now, it’s a gentleness that speaks to that grief-stricken boy he tucked so deeply into his heart. Michael turns and finds the apparition of his mother now staring at him. His father still oblivious, the bundle in his mother’s arms silent. “It’s mine.”

She lowers her arms, and the little bundle vanishes – simply fading into nothing, slow and as soft as an exhale – his father following shortly after. She stands, the skirt of her dress rippling with the movement.

He’d somehow forgotten the exact features of his mother’s face, but . . . there they were. As she approaches, Michael takes a hesitant step back. He catches his reflection in the window looking out towards the front yard.

He briefly diverts his attention, to see what might be out there. He expected blackness, but actually, it was their front yard. Even the stump where his father always chopped wood.

The same stump where he was –

Michael blinks and swallows, and something silvery catches his eye. Taking the risk, he looks back and peers through the glass to find a figure doubled over in the grass. Wild blooms circle around her, almost wrong compared to the dirtied armor she wore. And the way the sunlight reflects off the rainbow colors of her hair –

“Danika!” he exclaims, pressing his free hand against the glass.

As if hearing him, something seems to recede, making his friend appearing clearer, more solid.

She kneels in the glass, palms flat against the dirt ground. Her skin looks paler than before, her wide citrine eyes staring into nothing, an expression of pure, undiluted horror. Tears slowly stream down her cheeks, but she doesn’t wipe them. Almost, entranced.

Michael whirls to his mother – or, the demon disguised as his mother. “What did you do to her?” he demands, angling his dagger.

“She’s safe enough, for now. I needed to keep her distracted while we, talk.”

“We have nothing to talk about.”

“Don’t we?”

“No. Whatever you are – _whoever_ you are – you are _not_ my mother. I watched my father die; I heard my mother scream to me as she was beheaded next. There’s no way she’s alive.”

His heart aches with every word. The illusion is seducing him into questioning his instincts. Even now, it feels like there’s stones in his throat. Here he has a chance to reconnect; a chance to peek into the life he once knew before everything went to shit.

But his instincts pull his attention every which way, telling him that this world is _wrong_ , and he needs to get out now.

“Please, Michael.” the woman whispers. He didn’t realize his gaze had dropped. Blinking his focus, he looks up and finds the apparition of his mother standing a foot before him. “Just listen. Let me show you.”

“Why should I believe anything you say? You’ve been threatening the lives of Arendelle’s royalty, for _fun_.”

The apparition folds her hands together, placing them over her heart. “It is something I cannot explain. Just let me _show you_.”

She attempts to take a step closer, but Michael draws the sword cleverly hidden flush with his spine in his suit. He looks down the blade into those sea-green eyes, her softened features, her cheeks which always seemed to have the slightest touch of color to them.

Some part of him screams to run, but whether it be his need for answers, or because he selfishly – and so desperately – wants to see his mother again, Michael growls. “You’ve got one minute.”

The apparition nods and turns her head to her right. She extends her hand and the memory of his home shifts; they phase through the front door into the yard, that single instance shifting their surroundings, and the front yard is suddenly engulfed with flames.

Flames and screaming and the familiar voices of those men.

Michael feels his stomach drop, and somewhere deep within himself registers fear, but that consuming silence, that killing calm prevents him from acknowledging it.

Danika still kneels within her circle, her gaze still staring intently at nothing. Haunted, bleak.

Michael watches as the flames slowly consume his home, the men in black armor hauling his beaten and bloodied father out of the front door. His hands tied behind his back, sweat mixing with the soot and dried blood. Toward the center of the yard, his mother is howling like a hellcat. His younger self kneeling next to her, their hands tied as well, and his eyes only stare at his father.

“I couldn’t do anything.” His mother’s apparition speaks. “And I hated myself for it.”

The men shove his father to the grass, his father adjusting himself to turn and look at them. Sapphire meets sapphire, and his father tells him to stay calm. Even through the red stains of his teeth, even with the black eye swelling shut, his father still gently smiles with assurance.

Michael remembers shaking so badly he thought he would shatter himself into a million pieces.

The memory flashes, bits and pieces of stilled images: the men interrogating his father, beating him when he didn’t give them the answer they wanted; his mother still thrashing; a broad hand on Michael’s shoulder, keeping him rooted in place; the men hauling his father to the stump; two hold him down while the other draws his sword, and –

Michael looks away.

He bites his tongue as he hears steel meet flesh, bone crashing with a sickening slosh.

Then his mother is screaming.

“I wanted to rip them to shreds. To kill them for what they’d done.” Says the woman at his side. “For putting you through such trauma, for burning our home, for taking the love of my life.” She lowers her head. “I had been studying dark magic at the time.”

Michael snaps his head to her, his brows narrowing.

“I hated being a helpless little housewife, even with the basic self-defense your father provided. I wanted to be strong, to be able to protect myself. Magic seemed like the only option. I had placed some runes around the house, as protection. And I would meditate and study late at night, so not to disturb you or your father. Though not as beneficial as learning from a master, I thought I did pretty well.”

Screaming draws their attention back to the scene before them. His younger self already having run off into the woods after his mother had broken free. The men have readjusted their grip on her, one fondling her breast with a greasy smile.

Then, Michael is struck dumb at what he sees.

His mother – sweet and kind and gentle and loving – shoves herself to her feet, lifting the men holding her down.

She roars to the heavens and when she looks to the men – looks to Michael – he feels his knees buckle when he finds her eyes wholly black.

She throws one man across the yard like a stone. The other she slams into the ground before digging her nails into his eyes. His scream is enough to turn Michael’s insides watery. Then her fingers dig into the back of his skull and Michael feels his heart skip as she watches his mother snap the man’s neck.

The sound like the sharp twang of a harp string.

His mother stares at the men, her face splattered with the one’s blood, her dress stained, her eyes as black and as cold as the space between stars. The tattered skirt of her dress wafts in the evening breeze.

Death incarnate.

Their attention went to her. Then rose over her shoulder. Her head.

Absolute, unfiltered terror fills their faces. At what stood behind her.

Michael sees it too, and trembles.

The remaining men call her vial disgusting things and charge.

She strode over to them, letting them look her in the eye. Letting them see that she was the greatest threat to ever be reckoned with.

Death, devourer of worlds.

Then she is a whirlwind of flesh and grace. Her hand has shoved through the throat of one man, puncturing it wholly. Still he gives a garbled scream as his mother slashes his eyes into ribbons with her other hand, his throat shredded seconds later. He collapses face-first into the mud.

As for the rest, it was over before it really started. The mercenary got in two hits, both met with those bloodstained hands, suddenly as strong as steel. And then she knocks him out cold with a swift blow to the head.

So fast—unspeakably fast and graceful. A wraith moving through the mist.

Blood runs down his mother’s hands, her forearms. Even though the man hasn’t moved, she snaps his neck with a brutal crunch. Then she plunges her hand into his back, into his body.

Flesh tears, revealing a white column of bone – his spine – which she grips, her nails shredding deep, and breaks in two.

“I had planned to look for you, but you were always so fast. Like a stag bounding through the plans. I didn’t know you’d gone or if you’d ever come back – I didn’t know what to think. But then, after seeing what I’d done, I quickly came to realize that you’d be better off without me.” The apparition folds her arms, bowing her chin. “What kind of son wants to see his mother as a murderer? I didn’t think you’d ever look at me the same way again. Regardless, I tried to find you; I tried to follow the trail you’d left, my heart breaking at the thought of the panic that went through you. Being so young.”

She pauses swallowing.

“But then the trail ended at the ravine, towards the waterfall . . . and I feared the worst. I don’t know how long I’d spent searching that water for you. I didn’t feel any pain from its icy cold, didn’t feel the wet of my dress clinging to my legs. All I cared about was trying to find you, and when I didn’t . . . I just remember sitting there by the river – crying and wailing and slowly losing myself to this, darkness, growing inside of me. But there was some other voice in me telling me that the men might have reinforcements, that they might come looking for me. So I forced myself to move. To drink. To eat. To bathe. It was just a slow pace of taking that next step. I scrounged up whatever was left in the cabin; anything I could use or sell. Anything. It bought me a new dress and pity from an inn keeper who let me stay in one of the back rooms without rent. Sometimes she would let me do small chores for an allowance.”

Michael’s gut twists. He remembers that plunge; remembers trying to cross it. The cold bite of the water as it dragged at him with phantom hands. He remembers clinging to a rock, a tree, a log. He remembers feeling so cold he’d gone numb, but that was still second pain to the loss that had already cleaved his heart. The rebel soldiers found him half-dead; calling it a miracle he even survived, and it was one of the reasons they even took him in.

But his mother –

He never knew . . . never thought . . .

“I never told your father. I was scared what he might think of me; that he would try to disown me, or take you away because he was scared of me, or didn’t see me fit to be your mother. So late every night I would read, and study, and meditate, and train – mentally. This newfound darkness was something more than just a physical blow, it specialized in opening the minds of others to me. And I used that to see if anyone had seen you, encountered you. And when I finally found someone, when I learned you had been picked up by the rebels . . . I was so heartbroken, but so, relieved and happy too . . . You had been given a place to sleep, meals every day, perhaps even some new friends –”

“But at the cost of my humanity.” He interjects. His mother whirls to him, her hair slowly beginning to elevate as if gravity did not exist. “I never knew –” he croaks. “I didn’t know you survived, I just . . . thought . . . If I’d have known you were alive, maybe if I had just hoped more, I could’ve looked harder –” he clenches his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I joined the rebellion because of you and father. I wanted that king’s head on a pike for what he did to you – to us. I lost so much of myself throughout all those years.”

His mother coos him, a soft shushing as she approaches. She moves so quickly, so quietly that he barely has time to register it before her cold hand is placed upon his cheek. Though her skin feels like ice, it doesn’t burn, nor does it make his fingers grow numb. It’s a cold that dawdles but, is soft like midnight-velvet.

And it feels _whole_.

The moment feels real. She feels _real_.

“That is not your fault, my dear. I told you, I didn’t want you to find me. I thought you’d be better off without me. I had no home, no money, nothing beyond a broken, hardened heart.”

As the last words leave her mouth, her form begins to shift.

It was like a fog vanished from her face, her features sharpening, her limbs becoming longer and more graceful. Her skin begins to pale, evident of never seeing sunlight, or perhaps to show a light had gone out in her.

And her eyes – her eyes faded from that lovely, glittering sea-green to a familiar and glowing amethyst.

Michael’s heart stops beating. He doesn’t think he’s breathing. There is such silence in his head. Silver gleams in his eyes, but he blinks them away.

A soft, gentle fog begins to settle on his mind. Comforting. Welcoming. A shimmering veil that has his stiff limbs relaxing, his guard lowering dangerously.

“You’re alive.” The words are a broken croak. Tightened by the roiling emotions bleeding from his heart.

A slow nod. And an even slower response. “I’m alive. As much as I can be. Getting these abilities was no easy task. You’re not the only one who had to lose themselves to get what they wanted.”

“Mother?” he whispers, taking a step towards her.

“One day, I opened a portal and was met with a horrid sight of a hellish, _other_ world. The word radiated such power and ferocity that I couldn’t help but find myself drawn to it. Then there was this, _thing_ , that seemed to notice my opening, and it made to step through. I managed to stop it, and my strength in will seemed to, impress it.” She folds her hands over her heart. “It growled at me for being foolish but wanted to strike a deal with me: I would let it use my body to explore our world, and in turn, I got to use its powers to my own accord. I was so broken and angry that I couldn’t say yes fast enough.” She shivers. “I could still feel the sensation as I felt it enter –”

“So you’re, possessed?”

His mother cringes. “Of a sort. Sometimes it takes control, sometimes I let it. When the world was too hard for me to bear, I would retreat within myself and let it see through my eyes. And though I’ve gained better control over it, it still overwhelms me with its constant whispering and urges.” She pauses, sighing. “I realized you would never accept me if you saw what I had let myself become.”

“You truly think your own son would be so shallow?”

“I couldn’t take the chance. After everything you’ve already been through, after the things I’ve done – for survival or for greed – I didn’t want to put you through more hurt and suffering; especially if, gods forbid, the demon command I turn on you. I scoured the minds of every place the rebels had been spotted, and whenever I saw your face, my heart would elevate, but crack. You were growing up so fast, but becoming so strong. I knew what they would do to you. What training you would receive. But it was better than dead. And if you could survive, if you could grow up strong, if you had the chance to reach adulthood, I thought perhaps you could give those people who had wished and dreamed of a better world . . . at least give them a chance.”

Darkness fades to the gray light of dawn.

“The king –”

“He was a tyrannical bastard who needed to die.”

“I killed him for _you_.”

“And he deserved it, my dear. Whether or not you killed for your father and I, that king deserved to die. And now our kingdom prospers. He didn’t die an innocent man.”

Something in his chest is caving in on itself. Some part of him he’d thought long gone.

She raises her other hand and drifts it agonizingly slow towards Michael’s face. He shivers, loose strands of her hair tickling his cheek in spiderweb wisps. Though it dies away, dissipating like a sigh, it leaves him frigid in its wake. He lets the tears stream from his eyes as he buries into her palm.

Michael takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Why didn’t you tell me—from the start?”

“You were barely climbing out of war,” his mother says. “Hardly holding yourself together, trying so hard to pretend that you were still strong and whole. There was only so much I could do to guide you, nudge you along. But now, now I am here. And I have found you; I can help you with your magic, help you control it.”

“Where did it even come from? I know there were a few healers on father’s side but, nothing compared to this.”

His mother shushes him, caressing his face in a way that makes his skin tingle.

That shimmering veil becoming more distinct, opaquer. “I’m afraid that is a story for another time. For now, may . . . may I hold you?”

Michael hesitates. Grasping his mother’s cold hands and lowering them from his face. He says softly, “Mother, this isn’t right. Dark Magic is dangerous.”

“Is it dark, or is it simply misunderstood, like you?”

“What are you –?”

“True, the magic I’ve gained is very powerful. There are those who fear power, so they call it dark. But for people like us, such distinctions don’t exist. Without this magic, I could never truly protect myself. Or you. Now it’s the same spells I’m using to break myself from this cursed thing. Without them, I’m still trapped within my own mind. And you’re still alone.”

His mother wraps her arms around herself and says, “Is that what you want, my sweet? To be alone?”

Michael’s heart cracks. He reins in a sob. “No.”

Again that cold hand against his skin. “My sweet boy. I can show you how to become whole again. Please, just come and rest in my embrace.”

Her voice lilts through the air, through his mind like the lullaby she would sing him to sleep with.

 _Just let go_.

It’s like his instincts – that killing calm – has been muffled.

He is, relaxed. More than he has been in years.

 _Give into it_.

Perhaps he could stay in this darkness. Perhaps there is peace in the infinity of the world where he can be safe.

Perhaps . . .

And then he hears it.


	50. Chapter 50

“Whoa.” Anna breathes as Caiden hauls out yet another stack of books from that secret room. The scent of dust and dried parchment permeating hers and Elsa’s nose as they peer inside.

“Look at all of this.” Elsa mutters from her spot at the table.

“I’m looking.” The sheer awe turns her voice into a breath of exhale.

The room had been as Michael described, tucked into the corner of their library for so long. The books he scoured from the room Caiden brought in first, and one title in particular caught Elsa’s attention.

 _Magical Arts: Dangers of dark Magic_.

It was so hard to believe that their father had been studying magic. The room itself offered little more than a few dried herbs and stuffy cobwebs, but Caiden scoured every inch of that square space. With his face having such a heavy concentrated expression, it quickly opened Elsa’s mind to the reasons as to why he excelled as an elite soldier.

Having his presence here as, different, compared to Michael. There was this cocoon of silence radiating from the shadow weaver. And yet, it was comfortable. Not so suffocating that Elsa or Anna felt the urge to speak something to break tension, but the same silence found in a library – one made out of respect and privacy.

And yet, Elsa won’t – or rather can’t – the odd sensation that she feels around him. the way his magic seemed to caress her own, and yet push her away. Sometimes inviting, seconds later cold and withdrawn.

In the hour they’ve been here in the library, Elsa would try to steal glances at Caiden, wondering if he too could feel that pull between their magic. Olaf since has busied himself with a book on trivial facts while Kristoff excused himself to head to the stables to check on Sven.

Their charades game this time was held in one of the parlors since Caiden was using the library for research. Elsa was distracted to say the least: Michael and Danika had been gone for hours and still haven’t returned. Even the servant hadn’t bothered to set a place for them at the table. Nevertheless, even if she hadn’t been distracted by his absence, they would’ve won since Olaf and Sven insisted they be a team.

Elsa looks to Caiden again, those shadows having retreated. She also wonders what those shadows are whispering about her when she sees a faint tendril of it curl around his ear. Would they know of her past: how she blanketed her own kingdom in an eternal winter; would they know of her fear her powers poisoned her with since a young age?

Caiden didn’t seem to let on much, his face a perfect mask of indifference.

Throughout their time here, he’s scared the sisters more than twice with how quiet his feet are. Barely a disturbance in the stifling air, just a whisper of fabric and suddenly he’s hovering over Elsa’s shoulder reading the pages of the book set in front of her.

After seeing the book that held the runes of Northuldra, neither Elsa nor Anna were particularly pleased to see how well it matched the ones Michael drew at the first murder. It only brought back the images of the story their father told them. Caiden offered his reassurance, suggesting that there is still a high possibility that they aren’t the direct match.

As he sits across from Elsa now, Anna still scrounging through the room for anything interesting, Elsa lifts her gaze from the book before her. “Can I ask you something, Caiden?”

She tries to hide her flinch as those crimson eyes flick to her. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

“With how your magic works, do the shadows _actually_ whisper things to you?”

A cold yet amused smile has Elsa ready to just drop the subject. But he says, “I’m sorry, I’m a little confused. My shadow abilities don’t have me hearing whispers, if that’s what you’re implying. I simply use them to my advantage of camouflage.”

“Oh, I see.” She folds her lips in, trying to ignore the warmth flooding to her cheeks.

“Something on your mind?”

Her heart skips a beat when Caiden folds his book closed. She feels conflicted about having the shadow weaver’s full attention.

“Well, the woman who’s been terrorizing our kingdom, terrorizing Michael, she has a dark ability like yourself. I was just wondering if there was any correlation.”

“There are different kinds of darkness,” Caiden says. “There is the darkness that frightens, the darkness that soothes, the darkness that is restful.” Elsa pictures each. “There is the darkness of lovers, and the darkness of assassins. It becomes what the bearer wishes it to be, needs it to be. It is not wholly bad or good.”

“What about the kind that, invades minds?” she pushes. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Anna leaning against the threshold of the secret room.

“That, I do not know. But with Dark Magic, anything is possible. That kind of ability is rare, but not unheard of. Much like the shifters, they were hunted into extinction for their abilities, as such was heavily associated with the craft.”

“Do you remember their name? If they had one?”

The shadow weaver shakes his head. “I’m afraid I do not, Your Majesty.”

“Please, just call me Elsa.”

A dip of his chin. “As you wish. The gift of darkness has many possibilities, has many ways it can evolve. And even so, some are still being discovered. The only common root that we’ve found is the association with demons, or other worldly beings.”

“Other worldly?” asks Elsa.

“How so?” asks Anna.

Caiden adjusts himself to lean back into his seat, crossing his legs. “Well, it’s a bit difficult to explain.” He says, “I guess the foundation would be runes. They are the most powerful form of magic. Raw magic; able to be shaped and manipulated into whatever the wielder decides. They can be used for a variety of things, both good and bad. Runes also have the ability to open portals to other realms with disturbing ease, among other things. One in particular being of a very, fiery sort. Here demons reside and dwell among their kind, being despicable in their existence. Sometimes when those portals are open, it might as well be like a lighthouse beacon. And it can be very seductive, and they will try to cross through that portal.”

Elsa fights a shiver that spider-crawls down her spine.

“If they do, whoever is on the other side of it is going to have a terrible time.”

“They can possess someone? Just like that?” Anna asks.

“If the wielder is vulnerable and unsuspecting. And depending on the scenario I suppose, the demon could gain control of the wielder’s magic, or the wielder could gain the abilities of the demon. Of course, this is a small example of what else lies out there. Not all other worlds are bad. There a those who house our loved ones, and some that just are. Ones that exist in between even the rifts.”

Elsa leans back in her own chair astonished. “All of that can be achieved with just the runes?”

Caiden nods, grimly if Elsa read him right. “Runes have been around for centuries; sought out by thousands because of what they provide. Of the barrier they break between those born with or without magic. It can make them stronger, or give them the gifts they’ve so desired. I’ve seen plenty of people even tattoo themselves with such markings as means to greaten their power.”

“But if that well of power exists for magic wielders, what about those who don’t?” Elsa asks, Anna now taking a seat next to her as Olaf wanders into the secret room.

A contemplative expression, his eyes flicking to one corner of the room while he purses his full lips. The golden sheen of his hair ripples as a few strands fall over his eyes.

If she has to admit, Caiden is quite stunning. In more ways than one even for an immortal.

Gods, she still can’t wrap her mind around that.

He is immortal. Long lived.

How many years will he live once they’ve all turned to dust? How will he watch the world change?

After a moment, he says, “I suppose it comes down to willpower, as that is the same essence as the well of magic. Both mentally and physically. It’s not easy, and I’ve watched too many lose their minds in trying to control it.”

“Can anyone ever control it?” Anna asks, though to no one in particular.

“As far as I’ve seen, many have tried. All have failed, in one way or another. Even so the effects a possession can have can be deadly, so much so that the user may become dependent on the being to live. Oh, you look rather ill.”

Elsa blinks, not realizing her gaze had gone far off, Anna thought did look rather pale.

The grandfather chimes eleven, and both Elsa and Anna jump at the chime that rings throughout the library. Caiden resumes his reading, unbothered.

“Well, unfortunately on that note, I think I will turn in.” Elsa says as she places her palms on the arms of her chair.

“I apologize if I unsettled you.” Caiden says, clapping the book shut with one hand. The light of the sconces does wonders to exaggerate the veins that branch their way into his fingers.

She can see his own little scars wrapping around his hand like vines, disappearing under the sleeve of his tunic. The same tunic he wore at dinner, as a matter of fact. She almost chuckled seeing him in his formal attire when simply readying in their library.

“No. No, it isn’t that.” Elsa stutters.

She folds her arms around herself and casts a glance towards the doors that lead to the small balcony overlooking the courtyard. The doors she looked through when she was getting ready for her coronation.

She doesn’t see anything; can’t hear anything for the life of her.

Following her gaze, Caiden rises from his seat – a hush of whispering fabric. “I’m sure they’re fine. Those two can get their way out of any situation.”

“Doesn’t mean I still can’t worry.”

He walks past her towards the secret room, his brush of air smelling of elderberries and campfire smoke. Elsa cringes as she feels a ghost of a thin wind trail up her spine. “What time did they say they’d be back?”

“Midnight,” Elsa answers as she walks over to the balcony. “It’s part of the reason why I want to get ready for bed. Maybe it’ll take my mind off of things until they get back.”

Olaf suddenly chirps as he waddles over the couch. “And what if they don’t get back by then?”

“Olaf!” Anna snipes, the little snowman jerking up from a vial holding a brown liquid of gods-know-what. Her sister, bless her heart, walks over to her and brushes her hands along Elsa’s arms. “Elsa, don’t worry. We’ve seen the way Michael can fight. And if Danika is as good as he says, we have nothing to worry about.”

Elsa sighs and shakes her head, gently peeling herself from her sister’s touch. “He shouldn’t have gone looking for her.”

“Well, why didn’t you say anything?”

“Like anything I said would’ve stopped him.”

“She makes a point.” Caiden chimes. “Michael can be as stubborn as the day is long.”

“It’s not just that: he’s so ill-prepared to face this woman, or whatever she is. I’m worried he’s going in blind.”

“Well, the good knew is, if she wanted to kill him, she would’ve done it at the temple. But for some reason she wanted to awaken the magic he had lying dormant. The real question is: why did she awaken it, and what does she want with it?”

“It doesn’t make much sense,” says Anna as she returns to her seat. Elsa heading for the door. “Michael’s fire is such a contrast to her darkness; he probably poses the biggest threat to her. Why even bother awakening it?”

“And why not kill him once she did? These are the things we should be looking at.” Caiden looks to her again, that crimson stare not becoming any less chilling. “I don’t think she’s going to kill him, at least not yet. She wants something from him, what that is, that’s why he left to find out.”

“I would have felt better if the three of you had gone,” Elsa says as she places her hand on the door handle.

Caiden snorts. “And leave you unguarded? Yeah right; he would’ve never allowed that to happen.”

“We’re not completely defenseless, Caiden.” Elsa dares to say, biting her tongue with instant regret.

Without looking up from his book, he answers, “No, you’re just inexperienced and untrained. Which can be just as deadly as overly-confident.”

Elsa huffs, even if the shadow weaver’s smile makes her feel warm. “I’ll be in my rooms. Come find me when he returns, okay?”

Caiden look up to her with a heartbreakingly gentle smile. “Of course, Elsa. Don’t worry. He’ll come back.”

A breath of hesitation.

“Goodnight.”

* * *

Anna has no doubt that Elsa could waste an hour simply getting ready for bed. A shower alone would be thirty minutes, the only troubling thing is that it’s eleven-thirty and Michael hasn’t come back yet, nor has Kai come and told them of his arrival. Anna finds herself growing nervous for Elsa.

It tore her up to see her sister so distracted and bothered by Michael being so gone. And she had to admit to herself, it did feel a little odd not having him around, even for the short span of a few hours.

Even at dinner, her sister’s eyes would constantly be on all the doors of the room when they weren’t on her plate. Caiden had ordered his food to the be in the library, and while Anna liked having just the three of them eating at the table, it felt so, empty.

Olaf has since fallen asleep at the bay window. His little snoring rattling the pages of the book facing down on his carrot nose.

Caiden claps another book shut and tosses it onto another stack with a disappointed sigh. He takes a long stretch as he props his feet up on the edge of the table. Anna is beyond chastising him for his manners. Not to mention she did the same thing about an hour ago.

At this point, they’re coming close to their combing through the books available in the secret room. It yielded very little, and in a way, Anna is relieved. She couldn’t imagine how she would react to learn her father had gained some skill in learning magic. Or at least understanding it, for Elsa’s sake.

As she looks up from the scattering of papers she gathered from the small desk inside the room, she taps a finger on the oakwood table. “Do you mind if I ask you a question now, Caiden?”

A small chuckle as he thumbs through the pages of the next book. “Of course not, Your Highness.”

“Anna.” She smiles.

“Right.”

“It’s a bit personal, I hope you don’t mind.”

A shrug. “Depends. Ask.”

She gives a little chuckle herself. “You’ve been friends with Michael for a long time, it seems. Enough to know how he is.”

“Yes . . .”

“Well, how confident are you in his fighting skills? Because Elsa and I, we’ve only heard stories here and there about what he did. The things he’s seen . . . and I want to know if there’s any truth behind it.”

Caiden lowers his feet from the table. “Anna, I’ve fought alongside Michael for years during the war in our kingdom. And before that I fought against him, as well. And I stand by what I said at the table. I would not want to cross blades with him anytime soon.”

The shadow weaver’s face softens in a way that almost makes Anna balk. It only emphasizes the handsomeness of his features, his golden hair shining as he brushes a few strands out of his face.

“Michael will be fine. If there’s one thing I can say with confidence, it’s that he can get himself out of any situation.”

“Elsa seems so worried about him. And her being worried has me starting to worry now too.”

“He’ll be fine. And if somehow, he’s still not back by midnight, we’ll go out looking for him. How about that?”

Anna nods with an agreeing shrug. She gathers the papers, tapping them against the desk to get them into an organized pile. They should wrap up for tonight. No doubt both of their eyes are starting to dry, half of the words are blurring across the page.

She’s about to say as much, but then Caiden’s chair abruptly shrieks against the wooden floor.

When he stands, Anna suddenly realizes how tall he is.

Anna looks up and finds him staring at the doors leading to the single person balcony overlooking the courtyard. Anna stands with sudden excitement.

Maybe Michael and Danika have finally returned. She should go and tell Elsa, and she gathers the papers to put them back into the room when Caiden suddenly orders, “Stay there.”

“What?”

“Stay there,” he repeats, the shift in his tone is enough to ice her in place; her feet immobilized by the swift change.

She’s smart enough to drop her voice to a whisper as she asks, “What’s going on?”

The doors to the balcony start to rattle, a pitched whistling of the wind searing through the crevice. Anna almost chuckles, thinking the shadow weaver is simply paranoid.

But something in her heart knew better.

Knew better than to question his skills. Knew better than to mock a man who was half-demon with immortality.

Then something on the other side barrels into the door.

The entire thing shudders.

Anna shrieks as her fingers shake, dropping the papers to her feet. Olaf suddenly jerks awake, the book toppling to the floor.

“What in hell—”

“Get inside the room,” Caiden commands, not daring to take his eyes off the door as it shudders. As the handle rattles. “Get in— _now_.”

Olaf scurries over without any argument, to her surprise. He scurries over to her side, grasping her leg like a small child. Her breath is escaping in sharp sobs as she screams at her feet to move. They do, but not at the pace she nor Caiden expected. She slowly moves, her feet like lead as fear weighs her down. As the darkness beyond the balcony suddenly starts to shift and turn.

Those doors are solid glass.

They could break any second.

Dread and panic curl in her gut, ripping the breath from her throat.

“Anna,” Caiden says evenly. Calmly. He looks to her, holding her gaze. Steadying her. A sword he’d expertly concealed beneath his clothes, now rests in his hand. “Get inside the room. I’ll handle this.”

Somehow her body nods, and as she slowly steps her way towards the secret room, Caiden takes mirroring steps back, shielding her as she moves with fear-gripped slowness. Olaf takes her hand; she presses the snowman deeper into her leg.

Another heavy bang on the doors.

She could’ve sworn she hear glass crack.

Caiden practically shoves her and Olaf into the room, hitting whatever mechanism that has the panel closing her in.

Gods, to be alone, here – while he’s out there fighting, whatever that thing is –!

“Deep breaths,” he tells her. “Center yourself. Fear will get you killed.”

Anna obeys.

“Take this dagger.”

Anna balks at the weapon he hands her.

“Do it.”

She grabs the dagger, the metal cool and heavy in her hand. Unwieldy.

The balcony door shudders beneath a blow. Then another.

The handle shakes and shakes.

 _Oh, gods_.

They hadn’t bothered with the front door. They knew they were in the library.

They knew –

Another bang that has her flinching away. Another.

Anna’s dagger trembles as Caiden angles himself to the balcony door, his blade unwavering.

Another bang, furious and raging.

Then—a voice.

Soft and hissing, neither male nor female.

“ _Anna_ ,” it whispers through the crack in the door. She can hear the smile in its voice as it draws out her name. “ _Anna_.”

Her blood goes cold. It’s not a human voice.

“What is it you want,” Caiden says, his own voice like steel.

“ _Anna_.”

Then through the glass of the balcony doors, a pair of glowing red eyes blinks at them. No other physical shape. Just those ungodly eyes.

Anna's knees buckle so wildly she can barely stand. Every moment of training she’d done slithers right out of her head.

“Get out,” Caiden snarls toward the door. “Before you regret it.”

“ _Anna_ ,” it hisses, laughing a bit. “ _Anna_.”

Clapping her free hand over her mouth, Anna sinks onto the stone floor, tucked under a corner of the desk pushed against the far-left wall. Caiden is about to let the door close, but Anna somehow manages to wedge a book between the walls, leaving an inch-wide crack to show her the room.

The thing on the other side of the door growls. The doorknob rattles.

“ _Anna_ ,” it repeats.

Caiden peers at the two of them through the crack, his face still a mask of unnerving calm with his back wholly to the door now. Even though she knew he monitored every sound and movement behind it. “I’ll buy you whatever time I can, but you have to run. No arguments.”

“ _Anna_!” the thing snaps on the other side of the door, slamming into it.

Again.

And again.

And again.

“ _ANNA_!” it roars, the voice shrill and hollow.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Caiden disappears from view, a sob escaping Anna as Olaf huddles into her chest, her legs entrapping him as the door mercilessly shudders.

And then, silence.

Palpitating. Suffocating. Ear-ringing silence.

She can’t hear Caiden’s feet, the shadow weaver’s skills beyond her comprehension.

He waits, calculating. Sensing. A predator poised to strike.

Anna’s dagger still trembles as she holds Olaf close to her. The snowman too is quivering with fear.

A crash sounds through the room—followed by shouting.

Then a glimpse of fangs and claws and darkness.


	51. Chapter 51

Michael’s blood freezes as a creeping, leeching cold lurches by. He can’t see anything, just a vague shimmering in the corner of his vision, but his muscles stiffen. He wills his face into blankness. Even his mother seems to recoil, to wither and freeze.

The cold thing whispers past, circling. He can see nothing, but he can feel it. And in the back of his mind, a familiar, hollow voice whispers:

“ _No, my son! Do not listen to her honeyed words. You should get out of here, now!_ ”

The voice punches through the fog in his mind, clearing it entirely, and suddenly Michael is aware of every breath and every tense muscle as he grabs his mother’s wrists.

“Michael –” she breathes, his name a desperate plea on her lips. “Don’t leave me.”

She goes to reach her hand up, but he steps out of her touch.

That voice – his father’s voice – it rings out in his head like a pealing bell. “ _Go! Before it’s too late!_ ”

Even as the killing calm seizes control of his senses again, Michael can feel tears spilling down his cheeks.

“I love you, mom.” Michael says, his voice breaking. Then he moves, too fast for her to stand a chance.

His mother’s eyes go wide as he slid the dagger home, jamming it up into her heart.

And he sees the pain and sorrow in her eyes. Sees it and doesn’t care, not as that thing in his chest is twisting and breaking. Not as his heart — his heart — aches, so viciously that he realizes it’d somehow been repaired in these past couple months.

Repaired by Elsa.

Elsa, the Queen of Arendelle.

The Snow Queen of Arendelle.

The queen whose life has been threatened by the very woman who raised him.

His mother – possessed by a demon, using her skin as a meat shield.

Each of these facts hit him like a brick, and as he steps away from his mother, his dagger embedded to the hilt in her chest, she sags to the ground, haunching over her knees as blood dribbles from her lips.

And then the demon shows itself.

His mother’s gagging suddenly turns to hissing, her hair beginning to whip about her head.

When she looks up to him, her eyes are wholly black. Black veins begin to bulge from beneath her skin, trailing from her eyes now filled with depthless hatred.

As she opens her mouth to roar, Michael strikes as fast as an asp, swinging his leg up and ramming his foot into his mother’s head.

The illusions shatters, the darkness vanishing.

Without waiting, Michael whirls around towards Danika, knelt on the stones of the temple floor. Tearstained and silent, but still alive.

“Danika, get up!”

He grabs her by the shoulder before she can respond. He does however see her blink rapidly, slowly coming back to herself.

By some miracle, her feet start moving and the two of them are running through the temple ruins to get to the horse he hopes is still right where he left him. Danika is in no condition to shift, and he’s always been a fast runner.

He drapes Danika’s arm over his shoulder, his other around her waist as they run. “Come on Danika, just a little further.”

Again, those citrine eyes are blinking, clearing.

Then the ancient, hollow voice of that demon hisses: “ _I will grind your bones between my claws; I will drink your marrow; I will feast on your flesh. I am what you fear; I am what you dread . . . Look at me. Look at me_.”

Michael tries to swallow, but his throat has closed up. He keeps his eyes on the stones, on the trees, on anything but the cold mass circling them again and again.

“ _Look at me._ ”

He wants to look—he needs to see what it was.

“ _Look at me_.”

He stares at the coarse trunk of the distant elm holding the now bucking horse, its reins still secure on the branch he tied it to. Michael a mixture of a sob and a sigh of relief, thinking of pleasant things. Like hot bread and full bellies—

“ _I will fill my belly with you. I will devour your mind. Look at me_.”

They break past the entrance to the temple ruins, and Michael turns his attention to the starry, unclouded night sky, peaceful and glittering and endless.

Pleasant thoughts: summer sunrise, a refreshing hot bath. Meeting Elsa at midnight, losing himself for an hour or two in her body, in their shared breaths.

It is all around them, so cold that his teeth chatter. “ _Look at me_.”

He stares and stares at that ever-nearing tree trunk, not daring to blink. His eyes strain, filling with tears, and he lets them fall, refusing to acknowledge the thing that lurks around them.

“ _Look at me_!”

And just as he thought he would give in, when his eyes hurt so much from not looking, they reach the horse. With his free hand, Michael grabs the reins and settles the horse enough to help Danika. The poor steed seems to understand the situation as he still and even bends to help the shifter onto his back.

“Michael,” she mutters. Her voice so small, so . . . fragile.

He doesn’t dare to think what memories it made her relive.

“It’ll be okay, just climb up.” he answers in a surprisingly level voice as Danika places her foot on his knee.

As he boosts her up, her voice calls from the entrance of the temple. “It’s already done, boy!”

His mother, or the demon using his mother’s voice, as it is laced with many others. He still doesn’t dare to look. He hoists Danika up, the shifter swinging her leg over the other side. He deftly unties the reins and places them in her hands.

“You just need to hold on, he’ll know where to go.” He tells her.

“Michael,” she whimpers again.

He looks to find Danika staring at her over his shoulder. He takes her arm and pulls her to him as much as he can without dismounting her. “Danika, don’t look. Don’t give her that fear.”

“I knew you would come snooping around here for answers!” The demon continues to holler. “You don’t think I took advantage of you being away from the castle?!”

The fire in his gut spread through his veins.

“You’re too late! Even if you were to somehow save her, you think she’ll ever accept you for the monster that you are?!”

Too late.

The frozen rage flickers again, slowing, slowing, slowing the world down.

“ _You belong here, Michael_!” the thing wails. “ _Among monsters_!”

Michael turns to Danika. Her face is stricken and pale.

A sharp pain twists in his gut.

Elsa –


	52. Chapter 52

It broke through the glass doors, Caiden giving a heavy oomph of air as it tackles him, crashing through the furniture of the library and into the wall.

It’s something pulled from the deepest pits of hell. Everything about it is forged by ash. Its hairless skin stretches tightly across its horned head, displaying a gaping, lipless jaw with bone white fangs. It’s long knobby arms drape to the floor, standing bipedally with animal haunches. With its back to her, Anna can tell it was fast, agile, and powerful.

In a smooth motion, the creature turns to look at her through the crack in the door. It cocks its head, those crimson eyes boring into her soul.

Its slitted nostrils sniff twice.

Anna can’t stop her whimpering as the demon-creature’s thin lips stretch wide from ear-to-ear in a horrid grin.

There’s a heavy and loud roar that fills the entirety of the library and then heavy footsteps make Anna cower further into the deeper corner of the room.

Then another roar – a familiar one – echoes throughout the library, and the demon-creature roars back as the skin of its shoulder is ripped off by a Caiden’s hand, the other gripping the handle of the sword embedded in its back.

Anna stares, clutching Olaf like debris in a stormy sea, immobilized fear and disbelief. His hands have been enveloped in those shadows, curving his fingers into long, bone-shredding claws. But the rest of him is still human, if his clothes have been shredded.

The creature screams as the Caiden tears into it. He seems so much smaller compared to it, but still he manages to make five deep scratches into the creature’s skin. Even ripping out massive chunks before the creature reaches back one of its long arms and wraps its fingers around his body. It slams him into the floor enough that he bounces and tumbles back towards the secret room. Standing over her, protecting her.

The shadow weaver is on his feet before he even finishes rolling. Dark blue blood soaks the torn clothes and drips from his forearms, pink-purplish gore clinging to those taloned nails. Caiden hisses and roars at the creature, bellowing his challenge.

The creature sinks back into its haunches, poised to spring. It hisses back, scraping its claws along the wood to indicate its charge. Anna forces herself to stand, screaming at herself to try and be useful, but she also knows she can’t fight this creature – let alone win.

The other half of her mind is praising the gods and goddesses of all kinds that Caiden is here.

As the creature snarls, Anna watches Caiden tosses the sword aside, securing the daggers at his waist. With another roar that shakes the castle, the creature runs for them.

Caiden doesn’t move. He only widens his stance and braces himself.

“Caiden?!” Anna cries.

The shadow weaver doesn’t respond, doesn’t even turn his head as the creature comes closer. The collision between the two sounds like a thunderous, splintering boom and the creature screams as Caiden’s claws stab into its side. Caiden skits a little bit, but he remarkably holds his ground against a creature that’s twice his size.

Anna watches as he stabs his left hand into the creature’s chest, just missing the heart and actually lifts the creature up off the ground. He grunts while lifting, but that doesn’t stop him from having it up above his head, and then ramming it down, cracking the creature’s ribs across his knee. The pops and cracks are loud enough to make Anna sick to her stomach.

It roars in agony and Caiden then wraps his arms around the creature’s middle and hurtles it far back to the other side of the room. The floor dents underneath its weight, and the creature pushes itself to its feet and screams again, blood now leaking from its sides.

It charges at Caiden again, but this time manages to block Caiden’s attack, swiping up and its hand connecting with the side of the shadow weaver’s face. Caiden flies into the wall, denting beneath his mass and sending stones crumbling to the floor. Anna screams as the sound rings throughout her ears.

She clenches her eyes shut, huddling into Olaf who is trembling like a leaf. From the sounds she hears, the creatures drags Caiden across the wall before throwing him across the room like he did to it.

She hears him skip across the floor like a stone on water, hears him crash into a shelf.

Then groaning wood, the sound of books toppling to the floor and a loud crash that has Caiden grunting in pain.

Then those heavy footsteps, the gait slow. Approaching.

Anna releases Olaf, grabbing the little snowman and says, with a quivering lip, “Olaf, stay here.”

With a trembling hand she slowly pushes the panel aside. It’ll do them not good if their fighting causes a collapse that traps them in here.

Anna peers out and sees Caiden pinned beneath a toppled bookshelf, the demon-creature slowly approaching, its head tilting from side to side, judging how it will end him. He’s already pushing himself up, an animalistic snarl stretching his lips.

The table they had been sitting at no more than a few minutes lies in fragments. Her shaking fingers wrap around one of its wooden legs, silently lifting it over her shoulder.

The creature roars and Anna flinches, jumping and pressing herself against the wall as the creature grabs Caiden by his head – its entire hand wrapping around it – and yanks him from the pile of wood and crumbling bricks. It throws him to the other side of the room, sending him crashing into another shelf, denting it and toppling more books.

She doesn’t think, doesn’t feel.

She moves, fast like Michael had taught her, brutal like he’d made her learn to be.

“Anna, no!” Caiden yells.

She slams the table leg into the creature’s head so hard that bone and wood crack. The reverberations bite into her palm.

It’s thrown off him and whirls, its back legs twisting beneath it while its arms gouged lines in wallpaper, through the paper and into the wood and stone. It blindly surges for her, but another thunderclap of sound rings nearly ruptures her ears as Caiden tackles the creature. The two of them rolling across the floor before those shadow claws swipe at creature’s chest.

Anna follows the walls towards the library doors as the two swipe, lunge, dodge, and roar.

“Olaf!” Anna bellows when she reaches the doors, near sobbing as her hands wraps around the handle. The little snowman pops his head out of the secret room, yelping as Caiden crashes into the wall to the snowman’s right.

Without hesitation, he pushes off that wall and slams himself back into the creature. Motioning him over, he scurries to her side as she yanks open the door. once he’s out, she follows, but pauses and looks back to Caiden as he lands a punch.

“Caiden –?”

He glances over his shoulder at Anna and screams, “ _Run_!”

Without a second thought, Anna turns and takes Olaf and runs like hell.

The creature charges for Caiden again and this time it tackles him, sliding along the ground. He hears the crack as Caiden punches the creature on its face, but she doesn’t stop to look back.

She doesn’t know what she’s going to do. This thing can’t leave this castle. And she can’t lead it out to the open courtyard where it can feast upon everyone else in Arendelle. But she needs to get help, where can she go . . .

A high-pitched shriek interrupts her thoughts. The creature roars again and the castle shudders. Anna’s feet halt at the vibrations of an impact, the sound like an explosion followed by dropping wood and stone. Anna looks back down the hall to find Caiden flying _through_ the wall of the library and into the hall. Any hallway furniture and any priceless heirlooms shatter by the impact. Caiden already on his feet, his shirt having been torn to pieces.

He looks beat up, but mostly bruises and a small trail of blood leaking from the corner of his perfect mouth. He still snarls, his the tips of his ebony claws dripping blue.

The creature looks in worse shape and readies to leap for them on last time. Caiden doesn’t say anything to Anna, he barely acknowledges her before the creature leaps for him again. Caiden lunges towards it, drawing his claws once more and swings.

Anna watches as blue blood sprays as Caiden drives his claws through the creature’s face. It grunts and stumbles, Caiden impaling his second set of claws into the creature’s heart. Again, and again, and again, and again.

She would’ve stopped him, but besides wanting to make sure the thing is dead, Caiden seemed to be in a dangerous state right now. Finally the creature’s eyes turn dull and it sags atop him. But still the shadow weaver yanks out his right claws and drives them into the neck of the creature, his left claws shred the thing’s eyes into ribbons before he snaps its head and slices its head off.

It falls to the ground with a vulgar thud.

Caiden yanks out his shadow claws and finally sheathes them, his hands raw and bloodied. At some point, Anna had collapsed onto the floor and she’s still quaking as Caiden turns to look at her.

His muscled torso gleams with sweat and stone dust and smears of blue and red blood. Anna can only stare dumbfounded at the lack of injuries on him, safe for a few already-blooming bruises and a dried streak of blood at the corner of his mouth, at his left temple.

.

Caiden slowly approaches, dripping gore and blood. Olaf huddles into her side, her arm immediately wrapping around the little snowman, fearful of that blue blood tainting his snow-white body. He stops a foot from Anna and spits a mouthful of blood and possible bits of skin onto the floor.

“Are you okay?” He mutters, his voice deep and dangerous.

Shaking pathetically like a leaf, Anna tries to stand on her own, but fails. Caiden’s strong hands are there to help her to her feet, and she braces a hand against the wall. She turns to Caiden, pale as death. “Thank you.” She says hoarsely.

A terse nod. Then a smile crawls across his lips. It would’ve bene charming were it not for the promise of death still lingering in those crimson eyes. Eyes just like the demon, but more, warm – still more human. “You’ve got guts, princess. I respect that. Not too smart, and a little brash. But still.”

She would’ve countered, but her mind is too fogged. The shock of the situation settling over her.

Without warning, Anna’s legs give out and she collapses to the floor. The room tilts and blurs, and the princess welcomes sweet relief as she vomits into the corner.

“Easy,” Caiden coos to her, though he doesn’t touch her. “You’re alright.”

Shouting sounds from the down the hall. The guards. The servants. She barely hears their words through the ringing in her ears.

But then, one of the shouts something. She only hears the words, “– the queen!”

Panic seizes her heart and suddenly Anna is shoving herself to her feet. Caiden protest, but she pushes past him. Surprisingly, he lets her.

Gods. Oh, _gods_.

Elsa!

Despite the world still tipping, Anna forces herself to follow the route to Elsa’s room. She can hear Caiden behind her, carefully following her.

Elsa!

Anna can’t tell if she thought the word, or said it out loud.

 _Dear gods_.

Please.

Please.

 _Please_ –!

* * *

Michael hurtles down the forest trail, along road into the kingdom, through the city streets, discarding his cloak and heavier weapons as he goes, anything to give him additional speed, anything to get him back to the castle before Elsa . . .

Before Elsa—

The only presence is the sword sheathed at his spine. A clock begins sounding somewhere in Arendelle, and a lifetime passes between each booming peal.

It’s late enough that the streets are mostly deserted, but the people who see him keep well out of his way as he sprints past, his lungs nearly shattering. He pushes that pain away, willing strength into his legs, praying to whatever gods still cared to give him swiftness and strength. He could have sworn he heard hooves thundering after him, but there is nothing in the world except her and the distance to Elsa.

Please.

 _Please_.

He’d destroy them. Whatever threatened Elsa’s life, he’ll destroy them. Consequences be damned.

He doesn’t care if she doesn’t speak to him again after tonight, so long as he can see that face still alive and glowing.

The castle looms closer, its windows glowing with a buttery warm light.

Not again. Not again, he tells himself with each step, each pound of his heart.

Please.

 _Faster, Michael_ , whispers a strange, soft female voice in his head that is at once old and young and wise. _You race against doom_.

As he comes closer, what he sees makes his heart stop.

A crowd is gathered in front of the open gates, their worried whispers and casting glances make his stomach turn.

 _Move, Michael_ , that wise female voice begs him, as if there are only so much she might interfere. _Faster –_

He can feel a little wind pushing at his feet as if it can hurry him along. And he knew that it was a goddess peering over his shoulder, a lady of wise things. Who perhaps has watched over the sisters their entire life, mute without purpose, but since if she is free here . . .

He isn’t even paying attention to his direction.

Michael can hear shouts from behind him, but he won’t stop. Even knowing he’s been spotted, he doesn’t stop. He will stop for no one.

His rage takes him to places where he only knows three things: that Elsa’s life is in danger, that he is a weapon forged to end lives, and that if Elsa is hurt, no one is going to walk out of this alive.

Everything is slipping away, and suddenly his body feels so far away. His hands feel far away, his mind, his control . . .

Not again.

Never again.

 _Please_.


	53. Chapter 53

The assassin sprints through the streets, his boots pounding against the cobblestone.

His feet are bounding across like a stallion. His hood is over his head, his cowl covering his face. The chill of the winter night doesn’t even phase him as he keeps his eyes on the castle. His heart thunders as he hurtles across the streets.

His cloak trailing behind him, he’s a phantom of the night. Pumping his arms at his sides he wills himself to be faster.

Arendelle’s castle comes into view. Guards are all along the outside. He draws his swords without even caring about them seeing him.

One of them tries to stop him, but the man’s leg is already slashed open, leaking blood before he even tells him to halt. The others are dismembered and lying in puddles of blood in seconds.

He’s inside, and here he slips into the shadows, scanning his perimeter. While keeping to the shadows, his feet keep their speed, barely making a sound as his cloak shrouds him in darkness. He sheathes his swords to keep them from leaving a trail behind him.

He makes his way up the stairs, quickly finding a set of doors leading to an outside balcony. Like a snake in the grass he’s back outside in the cold, crawling across the bricks like a spider.

The assassin looks up and finds the balcony to the queen’s chambers. Quickly he climbs to the closest balcony and slips inside the doors, the warmth enough to make his skin sweat. He’s in the hallway of the queen’s chambers, just a left and a right and he’ll be at the door.

With everyone distracted from that demon-things diversion, silence is unneeded. The assassin sprints down the hallway, weaving his way towards the queen’s chambers.

Two more guards are present at the doors, and just as they lay eyes on him, he disables them and renders them helpless in seconds. Blood drips from his swords.

Their howls of pain don’t reach him. He can’t hear anything over his pounding heart, like the beat of a heavy drum. His swords are stained with blood, splattered on his clothes.

He rams his foot into the door, shattering the locks into pieces.

The assassin beholds the room.

The door to the balcony of the chamber is open. Its lace curtains billowing in the chilling breeze. Nothing is shattered, in fact it looks as if they were delicately opened.

And sitting in the chair . . .

Sitting there . . .

The assassin pulls his hood down.

“Why hello, lovely.” He smiles crazily, his voice laced with deadly calm.

The world slows to the beat of an ancient, ageless drum.

“No! No –!”

Deathly screams, splashing of blood and ripping flesh erupt from the chamber.


	54. Chapter 54

Anna rushes up the steps with the Caiden and some guards, hiking up her skirt to avoid tripping.

This cannot end in bloodshed.

At her side, she and Caiden are sprinting as if the winds of time are pushing them forward towards Elsa’s room.

It was no more than five minutes after the guards came to investigate the noise created by Caiden’s battle that she heard a bloodcurdling scream.

And it came from upstairs.

She had managed to piece the situation together: with Michael being gone, that dark lady or whoever she was, took advantage of this and tried an attempt on Anna and Elsa’s lives.

Elsa can’t be dead. She can’t be!

They hit the stop of the stairs. The shouts behind them grow; the commander of the guards ordering his men to keep the princess safe.

To hell with keeping her safe! She had been lucky – and never felt safer – to have Caiden at her side when the demon attacked. But Elsa had left early.

What if the creature got to her first?

 _Gods, oh gods_!

They turn down the familiar hallway, gasps and curses erupting from the group when they behold the wooden doors.

The guards that were assigned to watch Elsa lay on the floor with their throats cut from ear to ear, their internal organs spilling out onto the stone.

The door to her sister’s chambers . . . it’s been forced open.

Anna prays for speed in her step as she crosses the threshold and –

She beholds the room.

There is blood _everywhere_.

It’s splattered across the walls, like someone had exploded and it’s smeared along the floor like the body was dragged to and fro.

And at the center of the room . . .

At the center of the room . . .

Michael.

Gods – it’s Michael. But at the same time, it isn’t.

He is entirely covered in blood. It covers his mask, his arms, his legs. The blades of his weapons have lost their shine in turn for the rustic coating.

There is nothing beneath his cowl – nothing of this world.

That black fire burns through all thought and feeling until all remains is his rage and his prey.

Anna stands at the center of the doorway, gazing at Michael, and the assassin’s broken body before him.

It’s empty, artfully mutilated, so cut up that a thick puddle of blood turns the floor black and tainting the tips of his white hair. Daggers were driven through his wrists and ankles, deep cuts along his legs, one eye gouged out and his chest cavity open to see the side of his heart.

 _Gods above_ . . .

More guards are also dead, their bodies chopped up into bits. People file in behind her, and they fan out around Anna.

No one approaches Michael, and Anna can feel her knees quaking – in fear.

Michael just, stares at the assassin, his shoulders hunched forward, his arms limp at his side, holding bloodied blades, his nostrils flaring and heaving through his teeth.

Anna’s eyes flick to the assassin, looking past the shredded skin, white bones protruding from places.

His alabaster skin, burnt-gold eyes and moon-white hair hinted of a kind of ethereal beauty only achieved by the Fae. By elves.

But it isn’t until Anna beheld his hand, and the protruding claws that arc out. Not like Caiden’s wreathed from shadow, but of – of iron!

Their tips have bits of blood on them, and she can match it with the rips in Michael’s cloak. A stream of blood bubbles from his mouth.

His face is contorted to looking like he’s in the middle of a death scream, his iron teeth – teeth! – are tipped in blood as well.

That scream, that horrible scream that iced her blood – that was this assassin.

But where is her sister . . .?

Michael doesn’t even look at them, his hair covers whatever exposure of his face, his breathing still loud. Strands of his hair stick to his skin from the blood.

Anna takes a step closer to him, murmuring his name, “Michael . . .?”

Caiden is at her side, carefully approaching the assassin. A careful, discreet tug on her elbow has her stepping back.

She almost wants to run out of the room as Michael slowly turns his head to face her. By the gods . . .

His eyes – by the gods his eyes! The sapphire blue is a living flame. And his pupils have shrunk to the size of pinpricks of blackness. Blood drips down the side of his face, gathering at his chin. He’s still breathing heavy.

His eyes are just . . . wild.

There is nothing human in them, nothing remotely merciful. It freezes her heart.

“Michael,” Caiden says carefully. Michael’s eyes flick to him quickly, and Anna carefully sets a hand on her throat.

He’s treating Michael like a predator, and Anna worries he’s about to launch.

What he is right now, the edge on which he is balancing on . . . gods help them all.

Caiden gets dangerously close and extends out a hand. Michael jerks his head towards the shadow weaver, causing everyone to flinch.

“Where is Elsa?” Caiden asks softly.

As if his voice has broken the chain that was binding him to the darkness, Michael’s eyes blink, and they blink again.

A loud bang comes from the back of the room. Heads turn and Michael turns towards it, his blades still clutched in his hands as if he expects them to dissipate into dust if he lets go.

A large armoire is set along one wall and there’s another bang that echoes from. Anna’s throat constricts. Someone attempts to step over to it, but Caiden stops them, his eyes attentively on Michael.

The door bursts open and Elsa stumbles out of it, gripping the door to steady herself.

She’s changed into her pale grey nightgown, but she holds her head as she regains balance. She groans and shakes her head, and when she turns toward the crowd, she gasps and screams, covering her mouth with her hands in shock and horror.

“Wha – by the gods –!”

She can tell Elsa grows paler then normal. She almost looks as if she’s going to vomit. Her eyes gleam as she beholds her guards.

Michael shifts on his feet, and suddenly his eyes are wide, his brows furrowed, and he removes his hood.

Her sister’s eyes go to Michael, and her fear only grows.

At last—after these months—she sees the lethal predator she expected to find the very first day they met.

There’s a loud clang as Michael drops his swords. He takes a step towards the queen, his feet sloshing in the puddle of blood.

But Elsa takes a step away from him.

She’s afraid.

Michael begins to tremble. His hands start shaking as he takes another step towards the queen.

“Michael . . .” Elsa breathes.

At the sound of her voice, Michael drops to her knees, tears streaming down his cheeks.

He slowly shakes his head, but that wildness is still in his eyes. “I’m sorry.” is all he can say. “I’m so sorry.”

Elsa’s eyes flick from Michael to the unnamed assassin’s deformed body.

Then a flicker of understanding swims into her eyes and she kneels before him. Her hands take Michael’s face and she merely stares at him.

“I never wanted you to see –” he whimpers. He would’ve finished but his voice gives out, and he only shakes his head.

He’s acting like he isn’t himself – which, possibly he isn’t.

Elsa only pets his head. And then all together, Michael collapses into her sister’s arms, sobs wrecking his body. Tears of relief and joy that she is alive. But at the cost of exposing who he really is – the monster that dwells beneath his skin.

To her surprise, Elsa doesn’t flinch at the blood covering him. She only caresses his face as he rests his head on her shoulder.

As Caiden and the guards file in and escort Michael and Elsa out of the room, Anna’s stomach twists as she and Elsa take one last look at the assassin’s broken body along the floor.


	55. Chapter 55

Michael is still shaking even as he curls up next to the fire of his suite. After he had seen Elsa’s expression of sheer horror, after hearing her voice and seeing she was alive, he just – shattered. The adrenaline that fueled his sprint for the castle just dropped and suddenly Michael could feel _everything_.

He could feel the ache in his arms from the fighting; he could feel the blood that had covered him completely; he could feel the scratches and cuts and bruises inflicted upon him by that assassin, and he could feel his heart racing as if it were about to jump out of his chest.

And when he saw Elsa, the fear in her eyes, he almost shattered thinking he had lost her, but the queen merely held him while he cried pathetically. His tears were relief that had overwhelmed him since the beginning.

It’s a miracle that Elsa is still bothering to speak with him. Apart from seeing the carnage that he had left in her room, when he had arrived, he practically scared the ice out of her only seconds before he grabbed the queen and forcibly shoved her into the armoire without much explanation. And that was just a minute before that assassin burst through her chamber doors.

After he had heard of his mother’s plans, the world just slowed and blurred, and the next thing he knew, he was sprinting through the streets and up to the castle.

He climbed up the freezing, slippery stones up to her balcony. Then he surprisingly, ever so gently opened the queen’s balcony doors and slipped inside.

He had scared Elsa as she was in the midst of preparing for bed, and when she was about to ask what he was doing there, one look of his cold, dead eyes had rendered her frozen with fear.

Michael simply grabbed her and ordered her to stay hidden and not make a sound. His voice was calm and sounded like gravel. He then simply sat in one of the chairs by the fire and waited.

And when the assassin did show up . . .

He only greeted him with calm words, and a wicked smile. That assassin didn’t expect to see him, and Michael took full advantage of that surprise.

He first flicked his wrist and a dagger immediately found its home in the assailant’s eye, erupting a scream from him. He had barely finished when Michael launched himself.

He pulled the dagger free, not even caring at the eyeball lodged hallway up the blade. He only had a few blades on his belt, but it was all he needed.

After thoroughly hacking and slashing at the assassin, accompanied by blows of his fist and knees, when he got the assassin on the floor, he pinned her there with those same daggers.

Michael practically dissected, cracking open his chest cavity like a nutshell, plucking his nails off like petals to a flower, and stabbing daggers into his limbs like he was a living pincushion.

Michael then proceeded to pry him for answers, and every time he refused or cursed at Michael, (which was a lot) he then ripped off each and every one of those iron claws. He only got one hand done before the assassin confessed.

His mother had paid him a lot of gold to kill her – the man was experienced, long retired, but apparently, he still loved the line of work enough to take her contract. He can deal with that regret in hell.

But it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t ready to let the bloodshed end. He wanted to rip out that man’s rutting throat with his teeth. And he would’ve had the assassin not died so quickly.

He was good though, those god-damned iron claws sure have a reach. Michael looks to his now bandaged side, the area where those claws swiped him. Even he didn’t know the full extent of his injuries until the doctors removed his clothes. Thankfully, that was only nick that the assassin had managed to inflict. Every other part of Michael was untouched.

Only now does Michael realize the torture that he had probably put Elsa through as well. The armoire he had stuffed the queen in was right there while Michael performed his own execution.

She had heard every scream, every curse, and every begging word that the man unleashed to Michael; only to have splashing blood, ripping flesh and gurgled screams in return.

What had terrified Michael the most was that familiar feeling of when he had rampaged through that death camp. It was the exact same feeling. He could only see the assassin and the queen, he could only hear his pounding heart.

Everything else was blurred and meshed together in smears of color. And when Elsa spoke to him, it all just – cleared away like a fog.

He fists his hands as his mother’s words ring in his ears: “ _You think she’ll accept you for the monster that you are_?!”

He had failed.

A trap. He fell right into it.

It wasn’t just about an attempt on the sisters’ lives, that would’ve just been icing on the cake.

She wanted to expose him for the monster he knew he was beneath this skin.

He’d been so blinded, so focused on protecting her, he failed to care enough about the repercussions for what she was about to witness.

He never wanted her to see that darkest part of him. He was sure he had secured everything in place after what he had done to the miners and guards alike in that camp, but after hearing what was about to happen to Elsa . . .

The way that rage blurred the events of the night his old life went up in flames with the events of this night, that made his parents’ and Elsa’s faces bleed together, seized him so fiercely . . .

The door shuts loudly but Michael just stares at the crackling fireplace, his knee bouncing. He only calms slightly when she sees it to be Elsa, carrying a blanket. Michael doesn’t look at her even as she wraps the blanket around him like he is a child.

“There you go.” She utters gently.

Michael cringes at that kindness in her tone. She sits next to him, dressed in a different cotton nightgown. What was a pale grey is now a silky magenta, a thin glittering veil overlaying the long skirt dripping from single blue diamond-shaped sequin resting at the pane of space between her breasts. The neckline dips low, spreading wide before resting on the edge of her shoulders.

So beautiful.

Beautiful and alive.

Though Michael doubts she’ll be able to sleep tonight, and even if she does, he might not.

After Caiden and a couple of guards led them out, the shadow weaver wanted to bring the girls to someplace safe; why that’s still in the castle, he doesn’t know why.

Caiden had approached Michael and asked where he wanted to go. As he slowly drifted back into his aching, bloodied body, he was able to draw enough sense that he had mumbled about going to his suite. Being surrounded by something familiar. Something that feels like a home to him gives him a little bit of comfort.

No one protested as Elsa insisted she join him – not even Anna, though she did open her mouth to begin her protest. And Michael and Elsa held hands the whole walk there. He didn’t want to let go of her, he doesn’t even think he wants her to leave the castle again if the threats continue on.

He hopes that his mother hears, in detail, about what he had done to that assassin. He hopes she hears and knows to _stay the hell_ _away_ from Elsa and Anna.

He had managed to wash the blood off, having spent over two hours in the tub, taking three baths just to ensure he washed every ounce of that man’s blood off his skin. Then Elsa had brought him some fresh cotton nightclothes. 

He barely remembered the sisters’ tearful reunion – Anna looking no different than Michael, safe for her clean clothes and slightly clearer eyes; blubbering madly about how she was so worried about Elsa, speaking about the demon attack in the library. Elsa soothed her rattled sister, wiping away her tears and gathering her into a hug.

He did register how Caiden looked after his battle. He doesn’t know what happened to Danika. He only remembers getting her up on the horse, his mother’s words finding their mark, and then he’d nearly abandoned her as he sprinted back towards Arendelle. He caught a brief glimpse of her in the foyer of the castle, relief flooding him at the sight of her alive as well. Alive and looking more aware. More like herself. It’d seemed like her eyes had cleared from whatever dreadful memory his mother made her relive in that fog.

Gods, his mother.

That woman – the false Queen of the Fae, the Midnight Beauty – that’s his _mother_.

Possessed by some dark force and using her body as means of furthering whatever agenda it has. He still has to explain all of this to everyone. The mere thought heavying his muscles with exhaustion.

How could he tell them, especially the sisters? One of many questions buzzing around his head like a hornets’ nest. To have to explain to them, after all of this . . .

Michael wraps the blanket tighter around himself, hunching over his knees with a warm cup of tea between his hands. Mai had brought it, along with a three-tier dessert tray, but he barely touched it.

The heat of fire doesn’t seem to be reaching him at all. Even the heat of his own magic seems to have retreated.

For a moment, he wonders if the darkness in his heart had probably leeched away that heat as well. Perhaps he had spent so long without warmth that he now possesses a heart of ice.

Elsa shifts next to him, tucking her legs underneath herself. He knew she wanted to talk about what happened, another reason why Michael is even more upset. He never wanted anyone to see that side of him again. That part of it, it belonged in the dark. So it was right at home in that death camp.

Her hand touches his shoulder, and Michael cringes again. “Michael,” Elsa speaks, her voice barely louder than the crackling fire.

He almost wants to scream.

“Are you all right?” 

He doesn’t look at her. “No,” he whimpers.

He has the vague feeling of the world slipping out from under his feet like sand washing away from the shore.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He can’t answer that.

She shifts again, folding her hands in her lap. “I know you’ve told us things, but . . . I had no idea what you’d be capable of. Even if I didn’t see much, to hear what you had done . . .”

“I – I’m so sorry about that. I wasn’t thinking.” His lips are chapped, tight. “I so was bent on protecting you and, making him pay that I didn’t think to consider –”

“Michael,” Elsa’s hand rubs his shoulder. Each time she says his name, he wants to just scream and shatter something. “I owe you my life. And that’s all that I understand.”

Two tears slid down his cheeks, swift and cold. He didn’t wipe them away as he confesses, “I never wanted you to see that side of me.”

Elsa doesn’t say anything, but he can feel her pause. That’s fine. She doesn’t have to say anything. She just has to listen.

“When I was sixteen, I was captured by our enemy forces. I was a decent rank at the time, and it didn’t take long for them to sentence me without so much as a trial. I was sent to a salt mind, a death camp for prisoners of war and traitors and conspirators. On my first day, they beat me to a bloody pulp then dragged me over to the whipping posts.” He swallows. “I remember screaming after twenty-one lashes. And then I passed out after forty-two. They left me there, in the cold and rain. I had hoped that my commanders would hear of what happened and attempt to rescue me.” He shakes his head. “But I was there for six months. Within that time, I had seen so much death and evil and corruption that it would have left most men unstable.”

He wasn’t sure Elsa was breathing, but he did see her eyes flick to his back.

To the scars that clawed their way down his back.

“I kept trying to escape, regardless. And I think I pissed off the warden enough that he just kept torturing me or whipping me, as revenge or, something. They barely gave me any food, any water. And if another prisoner showed me any kindness, they were met with cruel retribution; so, most of them stayed away from me. But then one day, this woman . . . she helped heal my back one night when I was waiting for death. The following morning, she handed me a tin of healing salve . . . and one of the overseers saw.”

He drops his gaze to the teacup. His hands are shaking.

“Later that evening they raped and killed her.”

Tears roll down his face.

“And I just . . . snapped,” he whispered. Her face and my mother’s face seemed to just, blend together, and all that rage and hatred from that night, it just –”

Tears are sliding down Elsa’s cheeks.

“I had marked their faces the day they’d dragged her behind the building, marked every detail about them as they used her, then slit her throat from ear to ear. As she begged to gods who didn’t save her. I stalked from the mine shaft, the two guards at the end of the tunnel were dead before they realized what was happening. I reached the entrance to their section of the mines, and the first two overseers died when I heaved the ax into their necks. When I reached the other two, I let them see me, let them try to draw their blades.”

He knew it wasn’t the weapon in his hands that made them stupid with panic, but rather his eyes—eyes that told them they had been tricked these past few months, that torturing him and whipping him hadn’t been enough, that he had been baiting them into forgetting that The Reaper was in their midst.

But he had not forgotten a second of pain, nor what he had seen them do to the others.

“I wasn’t fighting to escape. The men died too quickly. And then I was running, sprinting for the death that beckoned to me, making for the towering stone wall at the other end of the compound.” He points a shaking finger as if she could see the layout. “They wouldn’t kill me, by order of the king. But I would make them reconsider once the carnage was too massive to ignore. I took a gash in the leg—deep, but not deep enough to cut the tendon. They still wanted me able to work. But I wouldn’t work—not again, not for them. When the body count was high enough, they’d have no choice but to put that arrow through my throat. I laughed when I became surrounded by forty guards. I think I might’ve killed five more before the world went black.”

He taps his fingers along the side of the teacup, cringing at how dirty and rugged they looked against the pink flower design. He looks to Elsa, her cheeks tearstained and her shoulders quivering.

“When the rebels finally did rescue me, word had already spread about what had happened. Maybe that was the reason why they even bothered to come and get me in the first place, but, during my recovery, one of my commanding officers visited me in the infirmary.” Michael squeezes the cup. He thought he heard the ceramic groan. “And he told me he hoped I learned my lesson, about being brash and impulsive. I would’ve snapped his neck had some other soldiers not held me down. He _left_ me there . . . to teach me a _lesson_. After that, they reassigned me under a different commander, and, I don’t know what happened to him. I remember the others giving the verbal thrashing of a lifetime. Hell, he might’ve even gotten demoted, because I never saw him again. But . . .”

He brushes his thumb along the handle of the teacup.

“But that thing, inside me – the thing that drives me to the edge, at my lowest point . . . I never wanted you to see that part of me. I kept that piece locked away, and I never dared to let anyone in. Not even Danika, or Caiden, but, I’m sure they have their assumptions.”

His eyes finally lift to hers. His lips wobble, and he presses them together.

“I was so afraid you’d run away. From me. You are the greatest thing that’s happened to me in a long time. You looked at me like . . . like I was worth something. And I was so afraid to destroy that – that you would see the kind of person I can become, and then this beautiful, wonderful thing that had come into my life, this gift from the gods . . . It would be gone.”

Elsa shakes her head, unable to take much more, mumbling and near sobbing, “No. No, no, no.” More tears spill down her cheeks as she takes his head in her hands, but not before taking the teacup and placing it on the table.

Aware of every breath, every movement, she sits in his lap. His hands gently brace her hips as she studies his face. A stroke of her fingers against his shoulders has the blanket slipping down his back.

She brushes his hair out of his eyes, revealing the scar that trails through his eyebrow. His eyes drop to the necklace resting between her collarbones. The snowflake twinkles like an early night star.

He stills as she presses her forehead to his. “It’s okay.” She whispers. “Michael, look at me.” He obeys. “Listen to me: there is _nothing_ , in this world, that would _ever_ make me turn away from you. I see you. I see your everything, Michael. And I am not afraid.”

His arms wrap around her and he presses his forehead to her shoulder, his body shaking.

“The only thing I’m scared of is losing you.” she whispers. She strokes a hand through his hair.

He felt the truth in her words, felt them like a song he’s been waiting to hear for the longest time. He hadn’t felt this kind of love since his parents. This unconditional love. And how is he to have been so lucky to finally find it?

Michael looks up, his face gleaming with tears. He goes still as Elsa leans in, kissing away one tear. Then the other.

“I care about so much. So much.” She mutters. A trembling confession.

“But it is so much than that.”

A steady nod as more tears fills her eyes.

“But I have nothing to give you.”

A breathy laugh. “I told you. You’ve already given me so much. And so much more.”

And then she is kissing him.

He can barely breathe, barely keep inside his skin, as Elsa’s mouth settles over his.

This kiss lingers. Her mouth traces his, and at the slight pressure of her lips, the gentle request he answers with his own.

The taste of her threatens to undo him entirely, and the tentative brush of her tongue against his own draws another rolling purr from deep in his chest. He lets her explore him, slowly and sweetly, giving her whatever she asks.

And when her mouth becomes more insistent, when her breathing turns ragged, he slips a hand around her neck to cup her nape. She opens for him, and at her low moan, Michael thought he’d fly out of his skin.

Elsa arches into his touch, another of those small noises coming from her. As if she’d been just as starving for him.

* * *

It’s like waking up or being born or falling out of the sky. It is an answer and a song, and she cannot think or feel fast enough.

Her hands curl into his shirt, fingers wrapping around fistfuls of fabric, tugging him closer.

His lips caress hers in patient, unhurried movements, as if tracing the feel of her. And when his teeth grazed her lower lip . . . She opens her mouth to him.

So gentle—soft.

Michael tears his mouth away, and before she can grab his face back to hers, he looks up to her. “You love me.” He whispers. His breath a wisp of a touch against her lips.

Elsa wonders if love is too weak a word for what he feels, what he’d done for her. For what she feels for him.

Another steady nod, her eyes pleading for him to touch her, to kiss her as she breathes, “Yes.”

A breath of a laugh as his hands skim over her hips, slow and steady. “Then say it.”

The whimper she gave – the sound is like kindling. “I love you, Michael.”

The words seem to snap whatever leash he had on himself, his mouth seizing hers again – this one more thorough. As if he wants to learn every taste, every angle of her.

She brushes her tongue against his, and his growl has her toes curling in her slippers—

Her hand slips around his shoulders, drifting from his nape to run down his back, savoring the warm, unbreakable body beneath the layers of clothes.

He hardens against her, and Elsa groans into his mouth.

He deepens the kiss, his tongue dancing with her own. She whimpers as he lets out a dark laugh as his hand gathers the long skirt and wanders under the back of her dress, down the length of her spine, his calluses scraping. She arcs into the touch, her own hands undoing her braid while his skillfully lowers her zipper with torturing slowness.

His lips leave her mouth and find her neck, pressing openmouthed kisses to it, nipping at the sensitive skin beneath her ears. “Are you sure?”

In answer, she meets Michael’s now-blazing eyes, and then licks up the column of his throat. Rain-kissed pine and sun-warmed leather and sweat. It almost undoes her.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” The person who says that – husky and sultry—she’s never heard that voice come out of her before.

Those words also became his unleashing, and Michael scoops her up in a smooth movement, his hands grasping high on her thighs as she wraps her legs around his waist, grinding against the hardness pushing into her, insistent and dominating. Every thought eddied from her head. Only a thrill of power remains as she writhes along that impressive length. Michael lets out a low, rough laugh.

With the loosened zipper, her dress slips from her shoulders, gathering at her waist. He drags his teeth along the side of her neck, and she pants, her entire consciousness narrowing to the sensation. She doesn’t care if she’s moaning loud enough the entire castle to hear. Not as Michael mouth and teeth close around her breast, sucking and biting and kissing, and nothing, nothing, nothing had ever felt this good.

He puts his mouth on hers again, Elsa driving her hands beneath his shirt as he walks towards the bed.

Gods, she just wants him to just take her against the wall, but he carries her over to the bed and sets her down on the bed with heartbreaking gentleness.

His mouth finds hers, the kiss open and deep, a clash of tongues and teeth. He pulls back enough for her kick off her slippers, to watch him peel away his shirt in one easy motion.

 _Gods above_.

She’d seen him shirtless before, and yet never noticed – not like this. Never _allowed_ herself to drink in the mouth-watering image before her.

Muscles upon muscles upon muscles, all covered by sun-kissed skin that glows in the peeking moonlight. The silver streaks also seemed to highlight all of the scars that marked his beautiful body. Short and long, smooth and jagged – each laid claim to some piece of skin.

Her hand quivers as her fingertips trace along a particularly gruesome one resting just over his heart.

The story it would tell.

Elsa gasps when Michael’s hand rests over hers, pressing her hand deeper into his chest, to feel the thunderous heartbeat raging against her palms.

He whispers, “I am broken Elsa. But I am healing, and every piece of my heart belongs to you. I won’t let them take you from me.”

He had never said such words—to anyone. Never let himself be that vulnerable, never felt this burning and unending thing, so consuming he might die from the force of it.

She can only answer by sitting up and kissing that scar across his heart.

“You love me,” she gasps. Not a question.

“Yes,” he answers, just as breathless. She gasps a bit as his knuckle grazes along her jaw, entangling in her hair.

Rising onto her knees, Elsa keeps her one hand on his scarred heart. She looks into those beautiful, blazing sapphire eyes.

“Then say it.”

“I love you, Elsa.” Michael breathes, and she feels the claiming in her bones, her soul.

She gasps as she’s pushed onto her back and bucks her hips off the bed to help him remove her dress.

His tongue flicks against her nipple, and her head tips back, her fingers digging into his shoulders, urging him to take more, take harder. He traces his fingertips over her thigh. Higher.

She plunges her fingers into his hair, and he braces a hand beside her head. His mouth finds her other breast. He grinds his hips against her, teasing—teasing her so horribly that she has to touch him, has to just feel more of him.

One hand slid across her abdomen, the other hooking into the thin fabric of her underwear.

Her face flushes with heat as he trails kisses down her abdomen, painting a path with his tongue while his hands slowly pull the fabric down her legs. His hair tickles her with its featherlight touch, causing her breasts to ache as her skin crawls with goosebumps.

“I love you, Elsa. And I will prove it.” he purrs against her skin.

Michael pulls back again, and she lets out a bark of protest—that chokes off into a gasp as he grips her thighs and yanks her to the edge of the bed, hooks her legs over his shoulders to rest on either side, and kneels before her.

He would bow for no one and nothing—

But his queen.

His love.

His equal.

“I want to taste you first,” he says, his voice so guttural she barely recognizes it.

 _Oh gods_.

“Michael –!” She doesn’t know if it’s a plea or a question.

The first lick of his tongue sets her on fire.

He growls his approval at her moan, her taste, and unleashes himself on her entirely.

A hand pinning her hips to the bed, he works her in great sweeping strokes. And when his tongue slides inside her, she reaches out to grip the edge of the bed, to grip the edge of the world that she is very near to falling off.

He licks and kisses his way to the apex of her thighs, just as his fingers replace where his mouth had been, pumping inside her as he sucks, his teeth scraping ever so slightly—

She arches off the bed as her climax shatters through her, splintering her consciousness into a million pieces.

He keeps licking her, fingers still moving.

“Michael,” she whimpers. Begs, as she digs her fingers into his hair.

 _Now_. She wants him _now_.

But he remains kneeling, feasting on her, that hand pinning her to the table.

Moans and whimpers escape her like a lyrical song, her legs twitching to close, but those powerful hands keep them spread wide, baring everything she is to him. She can feel the pressure on the balls of her feet as they support her writhing body. His tongue and lips licking and sucking while his fingers curled inside her, hitting that spot –

Release shimmers in her again, a wild and reckless song. And only when she is trembling, half sobbing, limp with pleasure, does Michael rise from the floor.

Wholly naked in mind, body, and soul, Elsa watches as he unbuttons his pants, and the considerable length of him springs free. She surprises herself as her mouth waters at the sight.

She wants him, wants every glorious inch of him inside of her.

He looks her over, naked, covered in sweat, his own face and body smeared with it, and gives her a slow, satisfied male smile. His eyes hold her as he brings those fingers to his mouth and sucks on them.

On the taste of her.

She is going to eat him alive.

“You’re mine,” he snarls as he crawls over her.

She is instantly liquid again, and she can’t stop a yelp as she feels him hook his arm under her, hauling her further onto the bed, laying her down on the pillows. Elsa locks her legs around his back, careful of the scars clawing their way down his spine.

Though she stops caring as he nudges at her entrance. And pauses.

“Please,” she manages to say.

Michael’s laughs in a way that skitters along her bones. “So polite,” he purrs, and slides in. And in. And in.

She can hardly breathe, hardly think beyond the pressure between her hips. He stills inside her, letting her adjust, and she opens her eyes to find him staring down at me. “Say it again,” he murmurs.

She knows what he means.

“I love you, Michael,” She breathes.

He pulls out slightly and thrusts back in slow. So torturously slow.

“I love you,” She gasps out.

Again, he pulled out, then thrust in.

“I love you.”

Again—faster, deeper this time.

She moves her hips in time with his. He kisses her over and over, and both of their faces turning damp. Every inch of her burns and tightens, and her control slips entirely as he whispers, “I love you.”

She feels it then, the bond between them, like an unbreakable chain, like an undimmable ray of light.

Her soulmate. Star-crossed between kingdoms, forged in fire and ice and steel and passion.

Her partner.

Her love.

Her equal.

With each pounding stroke, the bond glows clearer and brighter and stronger. “Michael,” she whispers, dragging her hands through his hair, down his back.

Release tears through her body, and he pounds into her, hard and fast, drawing out her pleasure until she feels and sees and smells that bond between them, and she is his and he is hers.

Elsa cries out, only to have his lips cover hers, as if he can devour the sound. Michael moaning as he comes, slamming in to the hilt.

Silence falls, interrupted only by their panting breaths. She takes his sweat-smeared face between her quivering hands and makes him look at her.

His eyes are radiant like the Northern Lights.

And she smiles at him as she feels their hearts beating together as one.

He buries his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder, his uneven breath warming her skin. He carefully pulls himself out, Elsa flinching at the unfamiliar sensation. He drops next to her with a satisfied sigh. Elsa giggles as she turns on her side.

He mirrors her movement, adjusting the blanket and sheets until they’re both burrowed beneath. With her remaining strength, she pulls herself closer until her head rests against his chest.

She nearly purrs as his arms wrap around her, his finger idly stroking light circles along her right shoulder blade. Not to arouse – to soothe.

She doesn’t know how long they lay there, lazily touching each other, but she doesn’t care. Not as they have all the time in the world. For now.


	56. Chapter 56

Elsa is already awake smiling as dawn pours into the room. Blinking against the shimmering light, Elsa lengthens her body in a long, quivering stretch.

A tickling chill has her aware of her exposed breasts, but she doesn’t care. Not as Michael still holds her to him, just as he had all night, as if she would somehow slip away during sleep. His features have softened into handsomeness. So at peace.

She smiles to herself, pressing her nose against his neck and breathing him in. He shifts, just enough for her to know that he’s awake. Indeed her eyes drift up, and her heart flutters when she finds two twinkling sapphires looking back at her with dreary elation.

The light in those eyes, the quiet joy . . . They knock the breath from her. He squints against the light, but he pulls her closer to plant a kiss on her temple.

Though it’s a face she’s memorized, a face that has haunted her dreams these past few weeks . . . it is new, somehow. And he just looks at her, as if he was thinking the same thing.

His hands began moving, twining themselves in her hair. “There’s no way in hell I’m going for a run,” he murmurs onto her head. She chuckles quietly.

Her own hand snaked through his arms to brush along his back. Lower. Not even stumbling over the scar tissue that dominates his skin in jagged claws. She plans to kiss every scar on his back, on his entire body, one of these nights.

“How are you feeling?” he mumbles, his eyes closed once more.

Like she is everywhere and nowhere all at once. Like she’s somehow been half-blind all her life and can now see everything clearly. Like she can stay here forever and be content.

“I feel okay,” she admits.

She almost whines when he lets go of her long enough to prop himself up on an elbow and stare down at her face.

“You’re all right, though?” He asks, stroking a finger down her arm.

She can’t move—can’t think, and her world narrows to the feeling of his callus fingers against her skin. Elsa bites her lip at the memory of those fingers – how they felt inside of her and made her tremble with bone-deep pleasure.

Elsa giggles, pressing the tip of her finger to the tip of his nose. “I’m fine.”

She’ll have to talk to a servant – probably Ida – about a contraceptive tonic as soon as she drags herself out of bed. Because Gods above, a baby . . . She snorts. If she does, if she starts today, it’d negate what they’d done last night.

His voice drops into a whisper—an erotic caress of sound that brings heat to her cheeks. “Good, because I have plans for this body, Elsa,”

She shudders as she closes her eyes. He says her name like a caress, and his hot breath tickles her ear.

“I plan to have you moaning my name throughout it all. And I will take a very, very long time, Elsa.” Every inch of her body goes taut as his words echo through her. Her back arches slightly.

 _Oh gods, yes_.

His other hand cups her backside, squeezing for emphasis. “I am going to fuck you until you can’t remember you own name.”

Just like that, she’s ready for him, aching for him again. He leans down to nip at her ear, and her toes curl. She whimpers as his lips graze across her neck with featherlike softness. His one arm snakes under her to pull her closer to him, burying his face in the crook of her neck while the other brushes some loose strands of hair out of her face.

With combined effort, they roll over until she’s resting on his chest, propped on her elbows as she envelops his lips again. With a swift kick, the blanket is gone, billowing before coming to rest over his feet.

She ends up straddling his lap, unashamed of her exposed body. A gathering of her hair falls over her shoulder. She giggles as his eyes trail along her aching breasts and pebbled nipples, her hands sliding along his forearms.

Michael’s eyes flash with recognition – at the confidence, at the joy and trails his fingers along her shoulders, down her arms as he whispers, “So beautiful.”

Elsa snorts. The idea that he finds her beautiful at all—

“You are,” he says. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I thought that from the first moment I saw you.”

And it is stupid, stupid for beauty to mean anything at all, but . . . Her eyes burn.

She leans down, resting atop him as she kisses him, his hand coming to cup the back of her head. A whimper escapes her lips when she feels his tongue brush hers.

Gods, is _this_ what she’s been missing?

She can’t stop, can’t get enough of the taste of him in her mouth, the feel of him inside of her. More, more, more—until she thinks she might burst out of her skin from pleasure.

He is rock-hard against her, pushing against where she sits poised right above him. All it would take would be one smooth motion and he’d be inside her—

Michael chuckles, murmuring against her lips, “Don’t you have some queenly duties to attend to?”

“I don’t care.” She moans.

She presses his shoulders into the bed, trailing her tongue from behind his ear, down his strong column of a neck, painting along his collarbone.

He reaches for her, but she freezes him with a look. “My turn,” she tells him. She runs her hands down his muscled abdomen—farther. He stops objecting.

He is enormous in her hand—so hard, yet so silken that she just runs a finger down him in wonder. He hisses, cock twitching as she brushes her thumb over the tip. She smirks as she does it again.

As their mouths meet, she slides onto him, the fit so much deeper, and he murmurs her name into her mouth. She kisses him again and again, and rides him gently.

She tries to think of the man dancers that have come and performed at the palace. The fluidity of their stomachs, the rhythm of their hips.

Sitting up, she braces her hands on his broad chest, reveling in the pressure that has her already trembling.

Some innate, long-abandoned female part of her has her hips rippling, riding along the pleasure of the dee, deep pressure between her hips. The part that knows how to pleasure, how to beg, and how to dominate when necessary. The part of her that knows how to seduce.

It didn’t last long, however. Though, she has to give Michael credit for waiting a full minute before interrupting her.

Suddenly his one hand is on her waist while the other grabs her wrists and pin them behind her back.

With her hips in place, he drives his hips up and sheathes himself deep in her with a single stroke.

Elsa moans every glorious inch of him, her eyes near rolling up into her head.

Michael pulls out and plunges back in, eternity exploding around her in that instant, and she thinks she might break apart from not being able to get enough of him.

She can feel herself trembling, her thighs straining as his thrusts get faster and harder. And gods damn her – though she doesn’t think she could’ve stopped herself if she had all the sense in the world – her tongue rolls out of her mouth, dangling as the depth of him inside her threatens to melt her mind.

Michael hauls her up against him, one hand cupping her breast as the other rolls and strokes that bundle of nerves between her legs, and she can’t tell where one climax ends and the second begins as he thrusts in again, and again, his lips on her neck, on her ear.

She can die from this, she decides. From wanting him, from the pleasure of being with him.

Michael barks her name, thrusting his hips up. Stars wheel as he slams deep.

For a moment, she thinks there’s light pouring out of her, glowing from beneath her skin like starlight, or maybe her own vision fractures as release barrels into her again and Michael finds his, gasping her name over and over as he spills himself in her.

Elsa doesn’t care if she’s moaning loud enough for the whole castle to hear, not as her back arcs, her hair a shimmering fan of cornsilk.

When they’re done, she remains atop him, her fingertips digging into his chest, and marvels at him. At them.

She leans forward, kissing his forehead, his temple, his check, his lips. His hands trail up the curve of her ass, along her spine until they rest against the back of her shoulders.

Carefully she hoists herself up from his lap, reaching to remove his length, still deep inside her.

Not one of her most gracious moments. As soon as she puts strain on her legs, they begin to quiver like an autumn leaf. She collapses next to him in shock, a drunken giggle on her lips.

Michael stretches long, his feet hoisting the blanket back over his waist. Barely. “Good luck getting me out of this bed, now.”

She giggles as she traces the tip of her tongue up his neck. Nibbling on his ear.

He gives a breath of a laugh. “Gods, I didn’t know you’d be such a little minx, Your Majesty.”

Her cheeks flush a bit, and yet, she doesn’t feel shame. Only a glittering sense of pride as he turns to her and kisses along her jaw. She watches his muscled chest expand as he takes a deep breath, dipping his head to rest his brow on her shoulder. “You know eventually we’re going to have to get back to reality.”

He might as well had thrown a bucket of ice water on them, but – he’s right.

She turns on her side. “Is there anything you want to tell me, while we’re here?”

While they’re here in the privacy of his rooms, where nothing shall breach the threshold if he doesn’t want it to. Where here he can confide to her whatever he can’t or doesn’t want to voice to the others.

No pressure, no rush. Just curiosity if there’s anything he wants to keep between them.

“Yes, and no,” he admits. Her heart aches at the shadow flickering in his eyes. “There’s no real, good way to say it.”

She places her hand on his shoulder. “Take your time.” He kisses the tips of her fingers. “In the meantime, I’m going to bathe.”

She slinks from the bed onto shaky knees and heads for the bathroom. She should bathe—she is covered in him, her mouth tastes of him.

Feeling freer than she has in a while, Elsa doesn’t hesitate to hide the extra swing in her hips, feeling Michael’s burning gaze along her back, following her hair where the tips brush along the curve of her ass. She only spares a glance over her shoulder at him.

Michael is fast, and so damn stealthy – because she could’ve sworn it was mere seconds later when he scoops her up in his arms. She doesn’t fight the yelp of surprise, nor does she fight as she carries her into the bathroom, both naked.

She’s never been in his arms like this before, and she won’t deny, she really likes it.

However once they cross the threshold into the bathroom, he suddenly adjusts, swinging her over his shoulder. His free hand turning the knobs of the tub and plugging the drain.

Elsa shrieks, but a smile stretches her lips wide as she feels his callus scrape against the back of her thigh. The strength and size of his hands . . .

“Michael!” she giggles, thumping her fist against his back – with no real effort behind it.

Once the water is to his liking, he adjusts his hold on her and carefully sets her down into the water. When the hot water hits her, it draws a moan, the ends of her hair floating along the surface.

He sists on the edge of the tub, reaching over to the small cabinet next to the tub to pull out a simple bar of soap and a washrag, lathering them in the water.

“Aren’t you going to come in?” she asks.

He smiles. “In a minute.”

He wants to watch her, bathe her. Just, look at her. The idea makes her cheeks blush. She never really thought about how it would feel – though she’s heard about it constantly: a certain expression a man gives to someone he loves. Rarely ever seen, even by his partner.

It’s something special. Something deeper than even sex.

And she never thought she would ever get it – let alone understand it. in fact, she almost thought it to be ridiculous.

But when Michael lays his eyes upon her, the smile it draws . . . It could stop her heart dead.

He leans over, ready to wash her, but before he does, she holds up a finger.

“What?” he asks.

She reaches over to that same cabinet and plucks up a pink vial of bath salts and another of bath oil and dumps in generous amounts of each, turning the sloshing water milky and opaque.

She bites her lip, hoping Michael gets a generous look of her body, as she has to lean over the lip of the tub to reach the cabinet.

When she rights herself, the fire in his eyes confirms her suspicion.

“You know, it’s okay if you use this stuff.” She says as she tosses the vial into the garbage. “They’ll be refilled in the morning.”

He shrugs, “Never really felt much of a need.”

Unlike hers or Anna’s his cabinet if full – to the brim even. He’s likely barely touched any of these things since he first arrived here. He’s probably been using the simplest soap they have. Another glimpse of what his life at home was like – before everything . . . She admits she likes that about him: his simplistic views.

She mutely takes the soap he planned on using, and hands him one of a luxurious blend of soft rose, winter woods & a drop of strawberry nectar, which he sniffs at, sighs in resignation, and then begins using.

He twirls his finger in motion for her to turn around, but she defies, reaching up and grabbing his wrist. She gently pulls at him, batting her eyes to further intentions.

Michael follows her eyes and gives a grin that is positively wicked but, he obliges. Turning on the lips and dunking his feet into the water. His hiss of pleasure a brush of air against her ear.

Once he’s seated across from her, Elsa seizes her opportunity and drifts over to him, her hands on his shoulders, her lips on his mouth. He grunts and the sound alone almost made her open her mouth to him, but his hand is at her chest, gently pushing her off. “Can we get clean yet?” he says in a tone that very well might have been a whine.

Elsa relinquishes with a pout, but a kiss on her neck has her turning her back to him, gathering her hair over her right shoulder. He begins rubbing down her back, scrubbing lightly with the cloth.

After a moment, she utters, “Are you going to tell me anything, before we go?” His strong hands knead the muscles that are tight and aching in her back, and she groans.

“Yes.” She folds her lips in at the tightness, almost wanting to take it back.

But after a moment of quiet contemplation . . .

“She was expecting us; when we got to the temple. We explored for no more than maybe ten minutes before she showed herself. Needless to say our conversation was less than pleasant.” His thumbs massage the column of her spine. “She knew a lot about me, almost too much. She knew about my past, about my joining the army . . . the things I’ve done. She knew about my magic, she knew about Pabbie trying to see her. She knew everything.”

When he withdraws, Elsa dunks herself beneath the water, emerging with her hair soaked and her back clean. Wordlessly, she takes the soap from his hands and turns him. He obeys.

Her heart falters a bit when she looks upon his scarred back, at the large, gruesome marks that gouge their way down his skin, smaller ones crisscrossing it like the stripes of a great cat.

But those four large ones – those lashings . . .

He notices her pause and glances over his shoulder at her.

Elsa blinks, her eyes flicking between his back and his gaze. “I’m sorry,” she mutters. “your scars are just, horrible.”

“You won’t hurt me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No,” she places the rag on his back, efficiently lathering it in sweet-smelling bubbles. “It just makes me mad at the ones who tried to hurt you.”

A cold, bitter smile. “Don’t worry. They’re already dead.”

She kisses his bare neck, and he reaches back to drag a finger down her cheek.

“Anyway, it turns out she’s been after me the whole time. She was never after you.”

“Last night would say otherwise.”

“I have my ideas about that, but we’ll get to that later. She said she wants to help me with my magic, because it extends far beyond comprehension, even for magic’s sake. She talked about it having a different kind of root, something deeper and far more powerful than the world has ever seen.” He pauses, taking a breath. “How we’re of a kind, she and I. And her magic is more than just a blanket of darkness . . . I felt these, taloned hands, clawing at my mind. She could see _everything_. My most private thoughts, my worst fears, all of my memories. So perverted and, violating.”

He stiffens enough that Elsa pulls back, giving him space. He reads her message, dunking himself in the milky water and attacks his face, the back of his neck, the strong column of his throat.

“And then she started talking about you. And how you would never accept me if you saw what I really am. She almost sees you as an interference.”

The realization hits like a stone. “That’s why she –”

“Yeah. It was only a matter of time before I left the castle – left you and Anna unguarded. Killing you both would’ve been a dividend. Her main goal was to get me to show my hand – to show you who I can become, show the monster that lurks beneath my skin. And then you run away, and I would be alone.”

To drive a wedge between them, leaving him more broken and lonelier than ever. That’s why he looked so defeated when she took that hesitant step back from him. How he looked no better than a lost boy when he fell to his knees, ready to crawl to her if he had to.

She reaches around his shoulder, resting her chin atop while her other hand snakes up to his chest. Her palm resting over his heart. “Well, she’s going to have a harder time taking you away from me now.”

A breath of a chuckle. His hand comes up seconds later to interlace their fingers together. “I thought I lost you.” He whispers.

“I was never afraid of the consequences of being with you. Even if every assassin in the world hunts us . . . It’s worth it. _You_ are worth it.”

His head dips a bit. And he says hoarsely, “Thank you.”

Her heart breaks for him then—for the years he’d spent thinking the opposite.

The powerful muscles of his scarred back shift as he scrubs at his face with his hands, then his neck, then his chest.

He lifts the soap to his hair, and she squeaks. “You don’t use that in your hair,” she hisses, jolting from her place to reach for one of the many hair tonics lining the little shelf above the bath. “Rose, calendula, narcissus or . . .” She sniffs the glass bottle. “Magnolia.” She squints at him.

He is staring straight back at her, his blue eyes full of the words he knew he didn’t have to say. _Do I look like I care_?

She chuckles. “You seem like a Magnolia kind of person.”

He doesn’t object as she takes up a place at the head of the tub and dumps some of the tonic into his hair. The sweet, morning-filled scent of magnolia floats up, caressing and kissing her. Even Michael breathes it in as she scrubs the tonic into his scalp.

Sitting like this, with his back pressed against her bare chest, his head on her shoulder while resting between her open legs, his arms resting atop her knees . . .

Washing his hair has its own sort of intimacy—a privilege she doubts he’s ever allowed anyone; something she’s never done for anyone else. But lines have always been blurred for them, and neither of them particularly care. She’s seen every bare inch of him several times, and he’s seen most of her. Well, until last night.

She pushes down on his shoulders, beckoning him to dunk under the water. He obeys.

They continue to sit like this, taking turns washing one another as he tells her everything that had happened since they’d left. She washed while he spoke, scrubbing him down with efficiency.

Elsa’s heart sinks when hearing about how they how they traveled back to his childhood home. How he saw his parents. How Danika was trapped in her own hell.

When he was finished, they both pause to do one final dunking before the two of them emerged from the water. He stands in a mighty movement, water sloshing everywhere. Still, Elsa grabs the pitcher and fills it with fresh water from the faucet while the rest swirls down the drain. She gave each of them three pours to ensure all the soap was gone, then she hands him one of the towels she’d left on the sink.

At least his mood didn’t seem entirely ruined – because he casts it around her, yanking her to him and planting a sweetened kiss on her lips.

She opens her mouth to him immediately. He hoists her up and perches her on the counter, Elsa uncaring of the cold porcelain beneath her. Her legs wrap around him, pulling him close. She moans as his one hand cradles the small of her back while the other braces on the counter.

She doesn’t know how long they stayed like that – though, long enough that she actually thought about not allowing him to leave his room – but by the time they finally agreed to leave, the bath seemed almost useless.

His tongue had been on her neck, on her jaw – hers being much, much more explorative, and that unbearable ache had started between her legs again.

But they have to go. Evil. Darkness. Magic. Runes. Assassins.

Still, she was willing to throw it all to hell when they emerged in just towels.

The sight of him with the towel wrapped around his hips, at the tan and muscled body that gleamed with the oils of the bath, at the scars crisscrossing it like the stripes of a great cat. Even Common Sense is at a loss for words.

Looking around the room, she realizes her only source of clothing is her nightgown – which has been laying on the floor this entire time.

She would’ve been dressed and in her office by now, attending to her ‘queenly duties.’

But with this distraction . . .

“Will it be so obvious to wear your nightgown?” Michael asks from behind, walking into the dressing room.

“I don’t know. I’ve never really done this before.”

“I could tell.” Michael huffs a laugh and strode to the clothes hanging along one wall of the closet: formal pants, tunics, jackets, shirts . . . “You can wear something of mine until you get back to your rooms.”

“That is, if it’s clean enough.” She says. It was her miserable attempt at making a joke, but the reaction she gets from him is less to be desired. “Why I don’t I just wear your stuff? I mean, they saw me come in here, and with my room being . . . worked on, no one’s going to really tell the difference.”

Michael hums his approval with a nod. Striding into the closet, she goes to the dresser in the back and opens the first drawer she sets her eyes on. She pulls open the middle one to reveal folded men’s undershorts, shirts, and pants.

She pulls out undershorts and pants but decides to throw the tunic on first. It’s a soft beige, and it’s long enough that it stops just at the middle of her thighs. She pulls on the undershorts and pants after.

A bit loose, to say the least. Michael is a warrior honed by years of training and battle. She braids her hair over her shoulder, and when she looks at herself in the mirror, it’s only sort of semblance she has of herself.

She snorts as she turns around. Michael catches the sound and looks to her, only to chuckle along with her.

The attire is very unflattering to her figure, and she wonders how men are able to dress themselves with such poor choices. Having dressed himself in something decent – a cream colored tunic with mud brown pants, he walks over to her and loops a finger through the beltloop.

“You know, without this” – one simple pull on the pants as them puddling at her ankles, leaving only the tunic and undershorts – “you look pretty good.”

Oh, he shouldn’t even try to get her started; not with that smug on his lips and that wicked gleam in his eyes.

“I’ll stop by the dressing room and see what spare dresses we have.” Elsa says as she begins her search for her slippers. She can’t even remember where they might’ve gone.

“Wait, dressing room?” Michael asks.

Elsa nods. “Yeah, we have this separate room where we keep any extra dresses and such. And when we don’t have enough room in our own closets.”

Michael laughs, the sound like music in her ears. “You know, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Well, don’t expect anything. At least I’m not. It’s just extra clothes we didn’t wear. Some of them might even still have price tags.”

“Oh, you poor, poor thing.” Michael teases with feigned pity.

Elsa turns and smacks his arm. He wraps them around her waist as a counter. They share another kiss together, her own hands twining around him.

“You still didn’t tell me why she picked you.” she says.

Her heart dampens as his expression turns forlorn.

“I mean, what did you do to deserve this? Especially if she’s been watching you your whole life.”

His grip seems to tighten around her as he presses his forehead to hers. Elsa closes her eyes and simple breathes him in.

“Maybe because she’s known me my whole life.” he mutters.

Elsa pulls back slightly, just to look up into those sapphire eyes. “How? And why now of all times?”

A deep, quivering breath.

“Because . . . she . . . is my mother.”


	57. Chapter 57

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry I haven't updated like before. I just started Spring Semester at school and just focused on that for this week.   
> But I hope you guys enjoy the new chapter!  
> KeshaRocks Xxx

“Your mother?!” Danika exclaims.

The shifter springs up from her seat, rattling the chair and setting its legs squeaking along the wood floor. Seated next to her, Caiden’s eyes have widened slightly, eyebrows raised; a minor reaction compared to everyone else, including Anna – mouth agape and eyes so wide they could see the white.

Standing at the head of the table, Elsa cringes as she looks to Michael. He seems unbothered, hands tucked into his pockets, but still Elsa can see the ripple of shadow through his eyes.

He had told her everything in his room, and he seemed so relieved once the words were out. Elsa herself nearly tumbled from his arms in shock had he not secured his grip on her.

Not fear, never fear. And certainly not anger.

And once he explained what his mother had told him, her heart only broke for him.

Gods, he stabbed his own mother to escape and to save _her_. How could she even be mad? And she said as much when hesitation seemed to drag him to sit on the edge of the bed.

As that same weight seems to begin pressing on his shoulders, Elsa doesn’t hesitate to loop her hand through his arm, placing it atop his wrist. Her other hand relaxes around his bicep, uncaring of everyone’s eyes. Despite the circumstances, her own heart bounces at the freedom she now has with Michael. No more having to hide her feelings, no more having to be shy with her touches.

Although, when coming down for breakfast, Elsa felt a little self-conscious around Danika and Caiden. Despite the bath she and Michael shared, the smell of her arousal is probably more barreling than the ringing of the Yule Bell for the two.

Especially when both the soldiers walked in, flared their nostrils, and Danika winked at Elsa with a waggle of her brows, while Caiden arced a brow with narrowed eyes at Michael.

She’s relieved to see them relatively unharmed; relieved to see the shifter having returned to her former, merry self. She had been concerned for Danika – the way her skin seemed paler, her tattoos stark; her citrine eyes seemingly guttered with exhausted fear . . . Elsa only spared a gentle brush on her shoulder, and it felt like it took ages for Danika to pull her stare to the queen.

They only shared a flicker of understanding before Caiden swept in and escorted the shifter up to her room. Elsa watched them as he guided her up the steps – one hand on the small of Danika’s back, the other secured around her shoulder.

As she stared at them, she couldn’t help but wonder if there was something shared between the two; something deeper beneath their comradery the way Caiden’s lips remained inches from Danika’s ear, no doubt whispering soft promises and sweet nothings; the way he held her close – the closest she’s seen between them.

Caiden himself seems to have healed tremendously since the battle with that, creature. Which they still have to discuss, also. But were it not for the small bandages speckled across his arms and shoulders – likely more hidden beneath that pine-green tunic – Elsa never would’ve guessed he had been injured. A perk perhaps of having immortal blood.

Gods, how old even is he?

But now’s not the time for that.

“You mean to tell me that the woman who invaded my mind and is making their lives a living hell, is the same woman who gave birth to you?!” Danika continues.

“Not exactly how I would put it, but yes. She claimed she was possessed, whatever’s inside her seeming to be responsible for everything that’s happened.” Michael says, barely acknowledging Elsa’s touch. He leans forward, placing his palms on the table as if a at a war council. Danika sits back down, snatching up her fork to stab at a blueberry muffin.

“And you’re _absolutely_ sure about this?” Caiden asks, his face a cold mask of indifference now.

“I saw the vision.”

“But how do you know it wasn’t a trick to gain your trust?

Michael hangs his head, mumbling, “I don’t. I just, have a feeling.”

“A feeling.” Caiden state flatly.

“I never said there weren’t loose ends.” Michael immediately defends. “I’m fully aware of the possibility that it was all a lie, a clever rouse. But . . . the things I saw in that cabin, the amount of detail that went into that, illusion . . . No one else would notice those things.” He pushes off the table, splaying his arms wide. “And maybe she did invade my mind without me realizing it, but . . . there’s just something, bone deep that is telling me she was telling the truth.”

Anna shyly raises her hand. “How can someone enter your mind without knowing? Didn’t you say you felt like these, talons on your mind?”

“I did, but those with abilities such as hers –”

“Abilities that are _only_ found amongst denizens of Dark Magic,” Danika interjects, shooting Caiden a glare.

“– their power can vary from simply slipping into someone's mind, with or without wanting to, to shattering someone's mind, effectively driving them crazy or leaving them in a catatonic state. Or they can make people their unwilling slaves, making them do whatever they want, and the person would never know it. It all depends on their training, or experience, I guess.”

“And you did say that she is possessed?” Danika asks, breaking a small loaf of bread in half.

“That was her claim, and with the things she showed me, I’m having a hard time denying it. I mean” – he slips into the next available seat, leaving Elsa to sit at the head of the table – “the details in the terrain, I knew that place like the back of my hand, and everything matched. Near perfectly.”

“What kind of, creature, can do that?” asks Kristoff.

“Rare ones,” answers Caiden as he slices into a sausage. “They are a breed of demons that are able to read, influence, and even shatter someone's mind as said, depending on their training and power. They are very rare, so the ones that have it are feared. There are enough scattered throughout the world that many – mostly those in positions of influence – extensively train against their skill set.”

Elsa folds her fingers, fiddling with her thumbs as she says to the shadow weaver, “You told me that there are different kinds of darkness, Caiden. But what would you make of hers?”

A shrug of his broad shoulders. “I cannot say. At its root, it all correlates with the fittings of a possession,” he dips his chin towards Michael, who still hasn’t even made a plate. “with a little extra power thrown in.”

Danika snorts, though her lips have turned into a snarl. “I’d love to see what she drags from your mind. Maybe it’ll too despicable even for her.” She grumbles.

“I’m not taking away from your experience, Danika, nor yours.” He says as he looks to Michael. “I’m just trying to bring awareness to the possibility that she’s not as powerful as we’d think. I’ve been around this stuff for years. You haven’t. Regardless of breed, a demon will do anything and everything to try and break you, through mind, body, and spirit. And that’s after they’ve lured you in, get you to lower your guard.”

“How do you mean?” Elsa asks, standing to make Michael and herself a plate.

Instead, Danika answers. “There are many cases involving demons that have the same foundation of portraying themselves as something innocent; something completely opposite to who they are. Most commonly a young child. Many times they will portray themselves a little child as means to lure people in, and once they have you, they change like _that_.”

Her fingers snap loudly, echoing throughout the spacious dining room.

“Children themselves are more susceptible to possessions, as they are more open to the world.” Caiden adds, Elsa reaching between him and Danika for a muffin. “Women as well, given they have a stronger emotional tendency, but both go through the same process when being targeted by a demon.”

As she finishes her way around the table, Elsa places her hand on Michael’s shoulder as she sets the plate before him. He spares her a nod of thanks, and Elsa starts to make her own plate.

Caiden furthers, “They will always target those who are vulnerable in the mind. Which brings us back to those who are in positions of power usually train against such attacks and influence. They will try to break you down, crush your will. And once you’re in a weakened state, you’re open to possession. And the root of all their “tactics” if you will, is fear. They feed off of it, and in your mother’s case, having watched her husband get butchered and her son lost, she immediately became open and vulnerable. It’s the same as you when your first met her at the temple, and even again in the town’s square.”

As Michael stabs his fork into a breakfast sausage, Elsa places her hand over his, over the scar that drags from his knuckle to his wrist.

“She speared her way past your defenses – if you had any – and crippled you with the memories of your past. But rather than shatter your mind, or have you possessed, here you are.”

“Further proving your assumption that she wants something from you.” Danika says.

“So what’s our next move?” Anna asks.

Elsa pokes at an egg while Michael pours himself a cup of tea. He takes a few sips before answering, “We know it’s me she’s after, but we still don’t have a clear reason as to _why_.”

“Well, it has to be related to your magic. That much seems obvious.” Danika says through a mouthful of blueberry muffin. “Whether it be because it poses a threat, or because she wants to harness it in some way.”

“She had said my magic was different than most. Something more powerful than anything ever encountered. But, before she could tell me further, that’s when I heard my father’s voice; telling me to get out. And that’s when she sent those demons out to attack you.” he nods his chin in Elsa’s direction.

“While I would like to strongly recommend, we stay away from her, she is the only one who can fill us in with answers.”

“Yeah,” Michael snorts, “well good luck trying to find _that_ out. I think my stabbing her heart with my dagger really shot that horse in the face. She’s never going to let me near her again.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’ll prompt her to strike or make a move. That’s the key.”

Caiden shakes his head as he finishes his plate. “Always full of silver linings, Danika. But she does have a point. After what happened, it’s better we stay at the castle. Let her show her hand. She’ll either want to lure you away from the castle, or she’ll attack you here. Either way, she needs you more than we need her.”

Michael’s eyes flick up towards Caiden. “You sure about that?”

“I’ve studied magic for years now. I know plenty of ins and outs. I’m sure I can come up with something. At least, if her whole talk of your magic being different holds any water. If not, best thing we can do is train it.”

A stiff nod of agreement. “You’re probably right.”

Elsa tucks a few strands of his hair behind his hear. At the clinking of silverware, she looks and finds Caiden having finished, and now his eyes are assessing Michael. Her spine tingles as the shadow weaver asks, “Is there something _else_ you want to talk about?”

Michael’s eyes remain on his cup, staring at the steam wafting from within it. Then his hand overlaps Elsa’s, and his thumb brushes along her knuckles. “Would there be a way to . . . cleanse, my mother of this alleged possession?”

A moment of silence.

Even Danika pauses with her fork midair as her eyes flick to Caiden.

The shadow weaver leans back in his seat, twirling a butter knife between his fingers as he crosses his legs beneath the table. A king without a throne. “Perhaps.” He starts. “But if she’s really been harboring this entity for all these years, I’m afraid it might be near impossible to sever their ties without risking the other.”

“Risk?” Elsa whispers.

“Though some demons can be powerful in their own right, none of them can really do anything without the use of an anchor. In some cases it’s a human vessel, other times it’s a certain object – like runes or gems that can hold their power. In the case of possession, some hosts can be cleansed – the demon seemingly nothing more than a parasite. But for possessions that have been drawn out for years, such as your mother, it’s like their souls intertwine when sharing the same host. With that said, by severing her ties to whatever entity she shares her vessel with, we run the risk of severing her life force.”

Michael’s fingers tap the sides of his teacup. “But there is a chance.”

Caiden seems to read the unspoken question in Michael’s eyes, and something firm and cold wafts swirls beneath his crimson stare. “It’s a very small one. And even then, it has an ultimate risk. I would _heavily_ advise against it.”

When Michael straightens in his seat, his next few words make Elsa glad she’s not on the receiving end of it. As does Danika – if her shifting in her seat is any indication.

“I can’t just turn my back on her. Not again.” He mutters, his voice so low and guttural it nearly sounds like a growl.

Caiden’s eyes narrow, and the tension becomes so palpable Elsa can feel herself suffocating. “That is if _she’s_ even real. It could be something else posing as your mother to get to you. Or perhaps it is your mother’s body, but something else in control. Bottom line, you prove to be more powerful than her. It leads me to wonder . . . as does her sudden appearance. I find it just a little too –”

“She said she’s been looking for me for years.”

“As have your other enemies who went to great lengths to destroy you. You mean to tell me you don’t find her appearance even the slights bit suspicious?”

Michael fists his hands on the table. “Forgive if I’ve been short sighted recently.”

“Not like it’s surprising.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This woman is the very threat to Elsa and Anna’s lives, and yet one startling revelation – and possible lie – suddenly has your forgiving all of it? Or should I show you the damage done to the library?”

Elsa herself had seen the damage done to the hall and the library itself. The gaping whole in the wall with its splintered wood and shattered glass was enough for Elsa to never want to even think about questioning Caiden. It still boggles her mind that he’s even sitting here with full body motion.

“I’m not saying there aren’t loose ends. And I never said I forgave her – if _stabbing_ my own mother in the heart was any indication.” Michael growls. The bone deep aggravation has Elsa’s skin rippling with goose bumps. “But she’s been through a lot – just as I have. Just as we all have. Why can’t you be more understanding?”

“Because I don’t know anything about her.” Caiden snaps, standing up from his seat. The legs of the chair squeak against the sudden movement. “She claims to know everything about you, having watched over you your whole life. And yet _now_ is the time she decides to strike? When you’ve fully matured?”

“I promise you, I’m aware of the situation.”

“Are you? Because it seems like all of these things were simply dropped once she declared herself as your mother. Remember she’s still dangerous, Michael. She’s still a threat to Elsa.”

Michael rises to stand, Elsa wrapping her fingers around his. She whispers a small flicker of her magic through their bond, whispering at the raging, burning heart within.

This doesn’t go unnoticed by the shadow weaver, because when he next blinks, that roiling rage that sometimes seems to mirror Michael’s, suddenly dulls.

“I _know_ you, Michael.” He places his palms flat on the table. “I know that little boy inside you is jubilant, perhaps even relieved. But I need you to keep your focus on the bigger picture. She’s threatening the woman you love; she’s the one who first awoke your magic in a such a catastrophic way; who just _last night_ , made another attempt on Elsa’s life.”

“Which is why we agreed we could stay together until she makes her own move.”

Michael shakes his head and lets it hang as he places his knuckles on the table. He takes a few deep breaths, Elsa taking her own when she feels that flame kiss her ice; a delicate tug through their bond that almost feels like he pulled on a rib from within.

There’s a slight tremor as he shakes his head, a much deeper one in his voice when he speaks, “She may be the only family I have left.”

Those words seem to shatter whatever rigidness gripping Caiden, because when he next blinks, his shoulders relax. Danika, too, lowers her head as she pokes around at some crumbs with her fork.

“I have to give her the benefit of the doubt. At least for the time being.”

A tense silence between the two. And yet . . . understanding.

Caiden gives a deep exhale before simply saying, “Fine.”

Without another word, he takes his leave. His boots the only sound in the dining room.

After a few seconds, Danika rises from her seat. “Well, I would say it’s time for a training session. I’ve yet to have one with Michael after years of missing him, and I would like to see just how much he’s been keeping up with his skills.”

This draws a chuckle from Michael, the corners of his mouth curving upward. “I can guarantee I’ve been doing a lot more than you. I will destroy you.”

Danika simply smiles as she saunters out of the dining room with that swing in her hips. “Meet me out in the courtyard and we will see. You two come along too!” She says as she points a finger at the sisters. “It’s time we also see how much time Michael’s been dedicating to you girls.”

“What about Caiden?” Anna asks as she stands.

Danika gives a simple wave of her hand, as if the two didn’t just have a tense conversation. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll get him to join. Even if he won’t come for me, not like he can say not to your two.”

With a wink and a gleaming smile, she breezes out of the dining room. The many colors of her pastel hair rippling in the morning light.

Suddenly the friendship between the trio becomes a little more understandable.


End file.
